


Tied Down

by HamPalpert



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Crime AU, Suspension of Disbelief Required, Unreliable Narrator, apparent infidelity, apparent murder-suicide, blatant butchering of all things criminal, criminals Louis and Harry, detectives Niall and Liam, multiple POVs, nonlinear, scene where sexual favors are negotiated, undercover officer Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-07-27 11:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamPalpert/pseuds/HamPalpert
Summary: The most interesting case in Liam and Niall's careers falls directly into their laps, courtesy of an epic fuck-up of one Harry Styles, partner to the almost-infamous drug dealer Louis Tomlinson.  The investigation yields an unexpected yet satisfactory outcome for Liam and Niall.  For Harry and Louis, however, things are far more complicated.





	1. Liam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ THE TAGS** They DO invlove the main pairing!!
> 
> If you have questions about potentially triggering content, please contact me [here](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/) (preferably off anon).
> 
> Special thanks to [Sterre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMTYUniverse/works) for giving this chapter a look-over for me! This work is unbeta'd, so all mistakes (and there will be many!) are my own.
> 
> Title from /Stockholm Syndrome/ by One Direction

LIAM

NCA HEADQUARTERS, LONDON

12 JUNE, 2024

Liam yawns behind his hand as he stretches in his desk chair.  Last night was another late night in a seemingly endless string of late nights, but they’re finally getting a reprieve.  They’d caught the man who was selling marijuana and cocaine to the students at the neighborhood secondary schools, after an unnecessarily long sting operation.  (Who’d have thought that teenagers would be so good at evading the police? When Liam was a kid, he would’ve rolled on anyone if a copper had so much as looked at him in a threatening way.)  However, the man, Jared Jones, despite his obvious dimwittedness, had remained steadily mum on the name of his supplier, throughout tedious questioning as well as the offer of a deal for a lesser sentence.  Liam and his partner, Niall Horan, had passed the case on to the courts for sentencing when it was clear he wasn’t budging. All that’s left for them is the eventual testifying, months down the line. But first– paperwork.

They’ve got it down to a science after four years on the job together.  Liam methodically types up the report, then Niall takes a metaphorical red pen to it to correct any spelling and grammar errors, and add information when necessary whilst Liam pretends not to be offended.  It may not be the most efficient way, but it works for them. They both have a tendency to micromanage, and this way they have their own individual tasks by which to do so. Regardless, paperwork is still a bitch.

Liam welcomes the distraction when his partner comes storming into the bullpen, hollering. Niall’s unflappable jovial spirit and generally loud voice was difficult for Liam to take at first, as a former beat cop and newly promoted Detective.  It’s old hat now. Niall himself was a transfer, having been ranked Detective in his old constabulary in Ireland. He was new to London, having followed the woman of his dreams, and had come highly recommended. It took a few months to work out the kinks between them, but their partnership has been wildly successful, if Liam does say so himself– if not for their accomplishments in taking drug dealers off the streets, then at least their friendship.  It’s outlasted the relationship that brought Niall to London by years, in fact.

“Heyo!”  Niall cries, turning every head in the office. He’s got a couple of thick files under his arm as he strolls into the bullpen.  “Payno, are you sitting down?”

“You’re literally looking directly at me, Niall.”

Niall laughs.  “Jen, come over, would ya?” he calls out to one of their fellow detectives, on desk duty due to her very advanced pregnancy.  Liam had thought she was meant to deliver back in May, but it’s June now. Niall joked once how she couldn’t possibly get any bigger, and she’d thrown a stapler at his head.  She missed, but the entire drugs division took it as the warning it was– Jen’s the best shot of all of them put together, with any weapon. They’d bet on it at the last Christmas party.  Liam lost a tenner.

Jen rolls over in her desk chair.  It takes her more time than it would have to get out of it and walk over, but Liam is keeping his lips sealed.

“You look like you’ve got a lifetime supply of free pints from _Tooley’s_ ,”  Jen says to Niall.

Niall keeps on grinning.  “Near as good, Jenny. Near as good.  Jones rolled.”

Liam’s jaw drops.  “As in, Jared Jones, the bloke who refused to open his mouth just the other day in interrogation?”

“One and the same, Payno.  Apparently he got a taste of gen pop and had second thoughts.  He made a deal last night.”

“And they didn’t tell us?” Liam demands.  “Who took over the case?”

“Who cares?” NIall says with a shrug.  “We’ve got bigger fish to fry now, anyhow.”  He slaps one of the two manila folders, each of them bursting at the seams, onto Liam’s desk.  “Harry Styles.”

“Styles?” Liam repeats incredulously.  “Styles is Jones’s supplier?”

“Mmhmm.  And we all know, where there’s a Harry Styles–”

“–There’s a Louis Tomlinson,” Liam finishes for him, as Niall tosses down the second, larger folder to join the first on the desk.  “I can’t believe it. Harry Styles supplying a small time bloke like Jones?”

Niall shrugs.  “Maybe Tomlinson’s letting him get his feet wet.  Make him feel like one of the big boys.”

“Wait, wait,” Jen interrupts.  “Back up. Who are we talking about?”

Niall’s mouth drops open.  “How have you been working in the drugs division for two years? How?”

“Tomlinson is one of John Bosco’s protégés,” Liam tells her.  “He’s newer to the drug business. Before he was mostly white collar.  Illegal gambling and such. Tomlinson typically deals to the elite, which usually keeps him out of trouble with us.”

“That’s where it gets sticky,” Niall says, pointing a finger at Liam.  “Jared Jones was selling to kids on Petey O’Neil’s turf. Something Styles would know not to do.”

“Petey O’Neil and John Bosco are definitely not small potatoes,” Jen says, leaning forward.  “Now I’m interested.” She opens the smaller of the two folders and starts poking through it.

Liam frowns.  “Don’t you think it’s possible that Jones just did his own thing by selling in that neighborhood?”

Niall shrugs.  “Either way he’s dead in the water.  O’Neil’ll go after him for stepping on his turf, and Tomlinson’ll go after him for implicating Styles. He’s in solitary in exchange for his tip, but I reckon he’ll be done for as soon as they can get to him.”

“In the meantime, let’s talk about Styles,” Liam says, straightening his back and pulling himself closer to the desk.  “Seems like an amateur mistake, to trust a clod like Jones.”

“Tomlinson’s definitely the brains of the operation, between the two of them,” Niall tells them.  “Styles is mostly just the eye candy. Seems a bit dim, if you ask me. Bosco certainly won’t be happy if this comes back on Tomlinson.  We might have a few heads on the chopping block. ”

“That pimply, frizzy haired kid is someone’s trophy wife?” Jen asks dryly with raised brows, gesturing to the open file, where a decade-old mug shot is clipped.

Niall laughs.  “Nah, that’s from his first booking as an adult.  He got caught for some petty theft when he was eighteen.  Here’s what he looks like today.” He digs through the thick file until he finds a color photo that appears to have been taken from a long range camera.  In the photograph, Styles is wearing tight black jeans, suede ankle boots, and a pink silk floral shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his belly button. He’s mid-chew and mid-stride, pushing his shoulder-length waves out of his face with one ring-clad hand.  He’s flanked by two heavies.

“Well fuck me,” Jen says appreciatively after a beat.  “No, seriously, is he into women?”

Liam gasps, shocked.  “Jen, you’re _pregnant_!”

“Yeah, pregnant and horny,” Jen corrects with an eyeroll.  “Billy won’t fuck me anymore, thinks his cock will hit the baby in the head.  I keep telling him it doesn’t work like that, and it’s not that big anyway.”

Niall laughs heartily at Liam’s scandalized expression.  “Even if he were, I’d guess he’s kept on a tight leash. Something tells me Tomlinson doesn’t share.”

Jen takes the file out of Niall’s hands so she can peruse it herself.  “Shit, you make it sound like he’s kept out of trouble. Petty theft, assault of a police officer, assault, disturbing the peace…  Jesus, someone’s got a bit of an anger problem.”

“He’s been out of the system since 2015.  Not a single arrest since then,” Liam informs them, peering over Jen’s shoulder.  “That’s seven years.”

“Eight,” Niall corrects.  He picks up the other folder and leafs through it.  “Tomlinson’s not been so lucky. Served six months in ‘18.  Money laundering. Which is, incidentally, just before he started dealing for Bosco.  And– oh, shit.” He furrows his brows, reading for several seconds. “There’s a report in here from someone undercover.  Tomlinson’s being watched closely, apparently.”

“So closely we don’t even know about it?” Liam asks skeptically.  “Who’s undercover?”

“Zayn Malik,” Niall reads.  “You heard of him?”

“I think so,” Liam says.  “He was around a few years ago.”

“Well, he’s been deep undercover for almost two, looks like,” Niall says.  “Marco Camp is his contact. Let’s see if we can connect with him and get some more information.”

“Good call,” Liam agrees.

Jen tugs on a copy of a mug shot sticking out of the file in Niall’s hands.  “Fuck, this is Louis Tomlinson?” Liam glances down at the photo. Louis’s blue eyes are as sharp as his cheekbones.  He’s practically smoldering at the camera. “Why’d these two get into a life of crime when modeling or porn were both perfectly viable options?”

“Bad parenting?” Niall suggests with a shrug.

//

Connecting with Marco Camp turns into a very late night meeting with an entire task force.

Hours before, undercover detective Zayn Malik was ‘arrested’ after being discovered with drug paraphernalia due to displaying suspicious behavior in a neighborhood shop.  He’s joined them for their briefing, and he looks so much the part that the cops in the bullpen can’t stop glaring suspiciously through the glass windows of the conference room they’re sat in.

“Harry Styles,” Marco begins curtly, holding up the same surveillance photo from Styles’s file for the group to see.  “Aged 30. Raised in the Cheshire area, but has been a London resident for most of his adult life. On his own since he was sixteen.  First arrest at age eighteen. Petty theft and assault of a police officer. A few other related charges over the years. He was court ordered to attend anger management after his final arrest several years ago.  No prior drug charges. The only reason he’s even been on our watch list is because of his relation to Louis Tomlinson.”

“What relation is that?” Tom, a fellow detective sat across the conference table wonders innocently.

Marco clears his throat.  “The assumption is that they’re life partners.”

“They are,” Zayn says sharply from the back of the room.  Zayn might just be the most handsome man Liam has ever laid eyes on, with cutting cheekbones, and thick, black hair hanging over his dark eyes.  He looks like he could use about two weeks worth of uninterrupted sleep and several double cheeseburgers. It’s the first time he’s spoken since entering the conference room.  “They are together. Romantically.”

Frankly, Liam’s a bit surprised that there was ever any doubt.  It’s seemed fairly obvious to him from the first time he’d learned about the duo.  But, then again, much of the greater police force continue to be rather old fashioned.   

Marco clears his throat.  “Well, there you have it. They’re a couple.”  He digs through a few sheets of paper on the table in front of him before pulling out a shot of Tomlinson, standing in front of a pub smoking a cigarette, looking directly into the lens.  “Anyway, Tomlinson is the big fish. Aged 32, born and raised in Doncaster. It’s been said by his character witnesses at various court hearings that he’s incredibly bright, almost gifted, even though he never completed his schooling.  He’s earned most of his money through legal and illegal gambling and betting. He supported his mother and her children with his winnings until her death in 2019, at which point the oldest of his younger sisters was granted legal custody of the others and cut all ties with him.”

Liam frowns.  It sounds as though the both of them have had a bit of a rough life.  It’s no real surprise that they would find and lean on one another.

“The background is nice and all,” Niall interrupts.  “But where do the drugs come in?”

Marco shoots him a glare.  “I’m getting there. Louis met one of Bosco’s cronies in 2018 when they were incarcerated at the same prison.”

“How is that possible?” Liam wonders.  “You’d think someone from Bosco’s ring would be in a much higher security prison.”

Marco dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “Everyone knows Bosco’s got friends in high places.  What matters is that Tomlinson began working for him upon his release, selling to the elite gamblers in his circle.  He also ostensibly oversees the property management of a number of office buildings owned by Bosco here in London.”

“Smart,” Niall says, under his breath.  “Covering their tracks.”

“Styles has either been kept entirely out of the illegal side, or has stayed under the radar until now,” Marco continues.

“Nah, he’s been kept out of it,” Zayn says firmly.  “And he wasn’t happy about it, either.”

Liam chances a quick glance at Niall, who raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment of the clear tension between Marco and Zayn.

“Right,” Marco says, nodding toward Zayn.  “We’ve yet to set up surveillance on Styles due to Zayn’s close proximity.   Zayn has recorded a detailed list of Styles’s daily schedule. It doesn’t change much.”  He leans over the table to tap at his computer, then gestures to the projection screen, where he’s uploaded a scan from a ripped out sheet of paper.  In small, neat, handwriting, a timetable is blocked off by the hour and day of the week.

Zayn gets to his feet and comes to the front of the room, swallowing nervously before explaining the timetable.  Styles goes to the gym early every morning except weekends. He heads to his apparent legitimate business that Niall and Liam hadn’t even been aware he owned– a pub– until sometime after lunch, goes with his driver to pick up Louis wherever he’s been, then returns home for the evening.  He spends his weekend evenings at his pub.

“Well, fuck,” Niall says.

“Don’t you think he might be a flight risk?  With this open investigation hanging over his head?” Liam wonders.

“Not to mention, his partner clearly has engaged in illegal concealment of funds,” Niall adds.

Marco, who’s been stood next to Zayn the entire time he’d been speaking, shakes his head.  “I find it doubtful. Styles has never left the country and doesn’t even own a passport. He also knows as well as we do that some chav’s testimony under duress won’t stick on its own.  Styles may be an idiot, but he’s a street-smart idiot, if you know what I mean. Besides, Zayn’s onto something bigger. Something that’ll stick.”

Zayn nods, pulling out the empty chair beside Niall and dropping down into it.  “We’re gearing up for a war between O’Neil and Bosco. It’s been a long time coming.  O’Neil’s pissed that Louis’s come out of nowhere and made a name for himself in the business, and done it better in a short amount of time.  And Louis’s on edge. He wasn’t made for this dark shit. His thing’s always been to steal from the rich and help the poor. He got into drugs because Bosco made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Niall snorts.  “Didn’t think people actually said that line in real life.”

Zayn glares at him.  His leg jiggles incessantly under the table.  “Fuck off. I’m doing my job. I’ve earned his trust, which is more than I can say for anyone else in his life.”

“How close are you?” Liam wonders.

Zayn looks down at his hands, something like guilt crossing his face for a brief moment.  “I’d say he thinks of me as almost a best friend.”

Niall raises his hands in contrition.  “Sorry, mate. That’s intense.” They’ve never done longer than a short sting before, but both Niall and Liam can imagine how draining it must be for Zayn to live this double life.

“Does he trust anyone else?” Liam asks.  “Aside from you and Styles?”

Zayn hesitates.  “It’s not– there’s tension between them right now, I won’t lie.  Harry... he’s been getting restless. Like I said, Louis’s kept him involved only as much as he can guarantee his safety should anything go down.  Harry doesn’t like that. He’s got the pub, but it’s not the same. If he doesn’t get to let his aggression out every once in a while he goes a bit mad.”

Niall nods.  “Thought as much.  That’s why Tomlinson let him handle Jones, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn confirms.  “Not his first mistake when it comes to Harry.  Won’t be his last, I reckon.” His leg keeps jiggling.  “Fuck, I gotta smoke.” He glances behind him into the bullpen, then pulls an e-cigarette out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket and takes a long pull.   “Always got a cigarette in your mouth, they offer you other shit less,” he offers sagely.

“How did they get together?” Liam can’t help but blurt out.  He’s been curious about Tomlinson and Styles since the moment he’d heard of the duo years ago. “Sorry.  If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Nah, it’s all good,” Zayn says with a wave.  “It’s interesting, I won’t lie. They’ve never talked about it much, but it was when they were teenagers.  The way Louis tells it, they looked at one another and just knew. Think Harry’s the only person in the world who knows what Louis’s thinking sometimes.  And they’ve got a wide range of connections, and complementary skills. Louis might be the mastermind, but Harry’s got the ability to see the details.”

“A match made in criminal heaven,” Niall drawls amusedly.  

“Anyway,” Zayn says, tucking away his e-cig.  “This is classified information. It gets out into the wrong hands and people could get killed before we can make a move.  Bosco’s got eyes and ears everywhere. Louis’s planning a big move. Gonna sell off his whole stash and try to get outta the game.  He’s arranging to sell to O’Neil at a discount as a way to settle bad blood. So maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Yeah, some giant fuckin’ birds,” Niall chortles.  “Tomlinson’s really planning to double cross Bosco and expect to keep his head?”

Zayn sighs, shaking his head ruefully.  “Louis thinks if he pays Bosco back what he invested that it’ll all come out in the wash.”

Liam frowns.  “The only sort of protection we can offer him is from the inside.”

Zayn  stands wearily.  “Let’s hope we can round ‘em all up, then.”    

“When’s the last time you slept at your real flat, Zayn?” Niall wonders, as they begin to pack up their notes.  “Be nice to get out the gutter, eh?”

Zayn sighs wearily.  “You have no idea.”

“So where and when’s this taking place?” Marco asks.  “We need to put together a crew.”

“Not sure yet.  Soon, though. Within the next few days.  It’ll be somewhere with heavy security. They probably won’t even tell me where ahead of time.  So, no backup. I’ll wear a wire, or some sort of cam if I can.”

“No backup?” Liam protests. “That won’t be safe for you!  And what if they search you?”

“They won’t,” Zayn says firmly.  “Louis trusts me implicitly. I’ve been around long enough for the others to know my face, too.  I’ll take my chances.” He looks from Niall to Liam, and they each nod reluctantly in turn. Zayn says solemnly, “It’s my job, and the risk is worth it to get all these drugs and scum off the street.  I think the NCA would agree.”

Zayn leaves a half hour later, promising to contact them if and when he has news.  Marco will take care of the security aspect, leaving Liam to feel a bit like he and Niall are sitting on their thumbs.  “If you don’t hear from me or Marco, don’t panic, and don’t come looking,” Zayn warns as he exits. “Sit tight.”

And they do.  For two days, they hear nothing.  They busy themselves by completing their paperwork and visiting Jones in prison for a little interrogation.  He doesn’t say anything more than he hasn’t already told– just that it was Styles himself who provided the product with instructions to meet a week later to give him the profit.  It’s strange, and seemingly lowbrow for a person like Styles, who could order an employee to make the exchange. Jones positively IDs him, though, so it’s something. A very tiny something.  Not enough to bring Styles in, of course. They take Marco’s advice on that.

Liam gets a call from Marco at 7:30, two days after their first meeting.

“Alright?” he asks, voice still groggy from sleep, but body already pumping with adrenaline.

“We’ve got ‘em,” Marco says quickly.

Liam’s heart thunders in his chest. “Tomlinson?”

“Better.  O’Neil and four of his guys. I expect he’ll implicate Tomlinson first chance he gets.  He’s with his barrister now.”

“No fucking way,” Liam punches the air in jubilation.  “Did he get any of it on video? Audio?”

“No,” Marco says, disappointed.  “Just the address where it took place.  Zayn wasn’t invited to come along like he thought he would be.  He’s lucky enough Tomlinson called him on the way to chit chat. O’Neil and his men were there loading it up by the time officers arrived.  We got him on an illegal weapons charge too.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Liam cheers. He’s a bit surprised he and Niall weren’t part of the task force, as assisting detectives, but it’s alright.  At least they got him.

“I’ve pulled Zayn out.  Both sides may know by now that there was a tip off.  It’s not safe for him any longer.”

“I agree.”  Liam tugs on his trousers with one hand, clutching his phone in the other.  “Horan and I’ll be in in twenty.”

“Make it fifteen.  We’ve got to move on Tomlinson quickly.  I’ve put surveillance out on his flat, doesn’t look like they’ve moved yet.  Zayn confirmed they went back there after the exchange. They almost certainly know they’re being watched, but they may not know why.  Tomlinson’s got a policy for them not to be disturbed during the night hours, Zayn says. ”

“Even when the dealer he’s just sold to hours before gets apprehended?” Liam asks suspiciously.

“All we’ve got to go off is Zayn’s information,” Marco says, gruff.  “Let’s hope Tomlinson’s idiot enough to do it. See you soon.”

“See you soon,” Liam parrots.  He hangs up, yanks a shirt over his head, then rings Niall on the way out the door.

Fifteen minutes later he’s rushing into headquarters, and seven minutes after that, before he’s even had a cup of coffee, he’s rushing out, in full gear.

‘What are the chances they’re even here?” Liam whispers as they ascend in the lift.  He can’t stop staring at his image in the glass walls. He could otherwise be taking a lift anywhere, were he not holding a handgun and wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet.  

“Dunno,” Niall says.  “Zayn seemed pretty confident.  Styles wouldn’t even be gone to the gym yet on any other day.”  He tugs at the collar of his vest. He hates wearing the gear more than almost anything.  “I’m just thankful we pulled the long straw for the lift. Imagine going up twenty flight of stair in this shit.”

“Fuck off,” Marco pants in their ears.  Niall bursts out laughing.

“Alright, focus,” Liam urges Niall and the other two men in the lift, as the number for floor 19 alights.  Tomlinson and Styles live on floor 20, a penthouse that requires a key in the lift. The security guard on the main floor reluctantly handed it over after being shown the warrant, and had to be talked out– or rather, forced out– of calling up to the flat as per protocol.  

Liam lets out a long breath as the ‘20’ lights, up, and the lift stops.  The doors open to a short hallway, where a pair of ornate double doors stand.  Liam is mildly surprised there’s no security at all up here. Tomlinson and Styles move about town with one or two extra men with them the majority of the time.  The men creep on quiet feet toward the door. Niall presses his ear carefully up to the door. He shakes his head. It’s early morning yet, anyway. Unlikely they’d be up and about making much noise.

“Police!”  Niall bellows as he pounds on the door.  “You have twenty seconds to open this door, or we’re breaking it down!”  He continues to bang as he counts down out loud.

Nineteen seconds later, Niall and Liam clear the way for one of their backup to use the ram.  It takes two good cracks before they’re tumbling into the flat, one after another, guns raised.

It’s an open floor plan, with the lounge blending directly into the massive kitchen.  Across the lounge area, open double sliding doors lead into a bedroom, where Louis Tomlinson is standing, hands on his head– stark naked.  He’s far more fit than Liam had anticipated, but he hardly has time for more than a split second glance at Tomlinson's wiry muscles before his police instincts kick in.

“On the ground!” Niall and Liam shout at once, moving further into the bedroom as Tomlinson acquiesces.  There’s a massive bathroom off the bedroom, and Liam hurries forward, poking his head in. “Where’s the other one?” Liam yells.

“Window!” Niall cries suddenly, and Liam jerks around to see the gauzy curtains of a wide open window flapping in the early morning breeze.  “Roof, roof!” Niall bellows. “Check the fire escape!”

“Where’d he go?” Liam shouts at Tomlinson, who’s lying on his stomach on the ground, both hands around his cock and balls.  His arse and the backs of his thighs are slippery and wet.

“It’s only me here,” Tomlinson says.

“What, so you were just fucking yourself?” Niall snaps back, holstering his gun and reaching for cuffs.  “You’re still gaping, mate. Give me your hands. Louis Tomlinson, you are under arrest under suspicion of selling illegal substances in large quantities.”

“It’s possible, though,” Liam says without thinking.  “There’s fingers, or like, toys.”

Niall stares at him, brows nearly disappeared into his hairline.  Even Tomlinson, being cuffed whilst lying naked on the ground, shoots him a bemused expression.  Liam turns abruptly and busies himself with double checking the large walk-in closet.

Once Tomlinson is in the back of a squad car en route to the station, wearing nothing but a loose pair of trackies Liam found in a hamper of dirty clothes in the closet, Niall and Liam search the flat.  The rest of the squad canvasses for Styles.

 _“You won’t find anything,”_ Zayn had advised over the phone, after Liam had brought him up to speed on the arrest.   _“They keep a clean house, far as business is concerned.”_

He’s right. They seize Tomlinson’s mobile phone as part of the warrant, but regrettably are forced to leave Styles’s behind, the latter of which is just sitting in its charging dock beside the bed.  The only physical items of interest Liam finds in the flat is a collection of dirty polaroids in the top drawer of the bedside table. He’s staring at Harry Styles’s blissed out face, lips stretched wide around a cock that he imagines is Tomlinson’s, when Niall comes behind him and snatches them out of his hands.

“Fucking creep,” he snorts, but he looks through them all anyway.  “Tommo’s got a nice arse, though, don’t he?”

“Why’d Styles run, d’you think?” Liam wonders.  “He wasn’t even the one we were after.”

“Well, he’s got the Jones case hanging over his head,” Niall muses.  “Bet he won’t get far, though. Maybe Tomlinson has some ideas.”

Tomlinson has no ideas.  None that he’s sharing, anyway.  He’s sat cuffed to the table in the interrogation room, wearing a London Police Department jumper (Niall’s idea, to demoralize him even more), and looking like he’s in desperate need of a kip.  He doesn’t react to anything Liam or Niall say, not when they play buddy buddy, not when they do the good cop, bad cop thing. He doesn’t even flinch when they wonder aloud why Styles hung him out to dry, leaving him naked and alone to take the fall, or speculate about his connections with Bosco.

“Barrister,” Tomlinson says, after a half hour of questioning.  Niall and Liam are forced to acquiesce. Their time to speak to him without counsel has passed.  Frankly, Liam’s surprised it took him that long to demand counsel. A pro like Tomlinson should know that’s the first thing to do.

“Where’s your proof?” Tomlinson’s barrister demands after a brief counsel with her client.  “Because the way I’m hearing it, all you’ve got is the testimony of some dealer with a chip on his shoulder.”

“We’ve also got testimony from an undercover agent, who knows Tomlinson very well,” Niall says.  “He’ll swear under oath that Tomlinson gave him the details of the deal from his own mouth.”

“Proof,” the barrister repeats.  “Physical proof. You have no pictures, no video, no audio.  What sort of investigation is this?”

“How do you know we haven’t got physical proof?” Liam asks.

She arches an eyebrow at him.  “I’m filing for release due to lack of evidence once his 24 hour holding is up.”

//

They’re shit out of luck.  O’Neil has shared his story of the events, and Zayn’s documented his, but Tomlinson’s barrister is right.  Depending on the judge, this isn’t looking good. They need something else.

“You’re shit out of luck,” Jen tells them a few hours later, as they prepare to leave headquarters to relieve the surveillance team at Styles’s pub, after a kip and a sandwich each, and another briefing with Zayn.  They weren’t granted a warrant for Styles’s arrest based on Jones’s testimony, so now it’s simply a matter of finding him and coercing him into talking– and ideally, implicating himself. “Tomlinson will walk, mark my words.”

Niall groans, and drags a hand down his face.  “Got any suggestions, then?”

“None at all,” Jen says breezily.  “But I do have coffee.” She plunks a thermos into Niall’s arms.  “Go get him, boys.”

Surveillance is tedious, and often feels pointless.  Niall hates it more than any other detective Liam’s met.  It has something to do with being in a confined space for several hours.  This time they’re parked in the back of a utility van, eyes on Styles’s pub.  

“This is useless,” Niall says for what must be the fourth time in the last hour.  “He’s not gonna come back here. He’s probably left the fucking country by now.”

“We’ve alerted the Border Force,” Liam pacifies.  “If he tries to leave the country, we’ll know.”

“We’ll know, but we can’t detain him,” Niall grumbles.  “Any updates on his friends?”

Liam pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text.  “The ones we’ve contacted have been unhelpful,” Liam reads aloud when the response from Marco comes in.  In their meeting after Tomlinson’s arrest, Zayn had provided a bit more information on what he knew of Styles’s background.  According to Zayn, he seems to have many peripheral friends, most of whom seem to be interested in him for his connections to bigger, badder things– but only a handful of close mates.  It was a gamble on their part to even begin such a broad search– if he hadn’t known before, Harry’s definitely aware by now that he’s a Person of Interest. But they really, really need something to stick harder to Tomlinson, and Styles is their only option.  “No surprises there.”

“Payno,” Niall suddenly says sharply, wrenching Liam away from his musings.  “Payno, look. Right on fucking schedule.”

Liam follows Niall’s finger, pointed at a lone figure striding into the pub.  Harry Styles walks slightly hunched over, with his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans.  He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, and his hair is loose around his shoulders. “No fucking way.”  Into his mic, he says, “We’ve got an eye on Styles. He’s got no security with him. Headed into the main entrance of his pub.  Officers man all exits. No one out or in until we get him. He’ll probably attempt to flee again. Horan and I are heading in through the front entrance.”

“Roger that,” Marco’s voice crackles back after a beat.  “Backup’ll come in through the rear, and we’ll keep watch on the cellar door.”

Niall snorts.  “What a sodding idiot.  He must be ace in the sack for Tomlinson to keep him around.”

Liam opens the back door of the surveillance van.  “Let’s do this.”

The pub looks like any other hipster drinking establishment.  It’s got mismatched chairs and funky lighting, and black and white photographs of London architecture on the walls.  It’s a far cry from the hole in the wall mostly-police-frequented pub that Liam and Niall sometimes go to after work. It’s also quite busy.  They have to push their way through to the bar, scanning the crowd for Styles.

“Might be in the back,” Liam shouts in Niall’s ear.  He’s grateful he’s in plainclothes. No one is paying them any mind at the moment, and he’d like to keep it that way until they get an eye on their target.

“He isn’t,” Niall says, a smirk on his lips.  “Have a look at that.” He inclines his head towards the booth in the far corner of the room.  Liam cranes his neck to see, then his jaw drops. Niall shakes his head ruefully. “When the cat’s away the mouse will play, eh?”  He tips his head to the left, and Liam goes right.

“Suspect spotted.” Liam whispers into his mic.  Unlikely anyone on the wire has heard him thanks to the din of the pub, but Styles is currently sufficiently distracted enough to be relatively easy to apprehend.  Liam hopes, anyway.

“Police!” Niall shouts, when he’s two steps away.  Styles jerks to his feet, and the woman in his lap screeches as she falls to the ground and scrambles away.  Styles throws a wild punch and catches Niall in the face. Luckily, Liam’s come up behind him and manages to wrestle him to the ground.  Niall staggers, but rights himself, then drops down to his knees to assist.

“Harry Styles,” Liam grunts, angling his knee further into Styles’s back,  “you are under arrest for suspicion of distribution of illegal substances, and for assault of an officer.”

Styles goes slack and silent once the cuffs are on him, and needs to be hauled bodily to his feet.  Onlookers have formed a circle around them by now, and they clear a path as Niall and Liam stumble with Styles’s near-dead weight.

They deliver him to an awaiting police car and send him in his way for booking, keen on collecting a bit more evidence before interrogation.

“You’re gonna need some ice for that,” Liam says as the re-enter the pub.  

“No shit,” Niall grumbles.  “Why’s it always me getting the shiners?”

Liam slaps him on the back.  “Go get ice from the bartender and tell him his boss is on his way to jail.  I’m going to see if this place has security cameras. I’ve got an idea.”

Just under an hour later, they’ve got Tomlinson and Styles in separate interrogation rooms, divided only by a viewing room.  It’s a bit of a power trip, to turn one way and see Tomlinson staring coolly ahead but wringing his hands together under the table, and to turn the other way and see Styles, running his hands through his hair over and over, neck bent to accommodate his cuffed wrists, the both of them unaware of the other’s presence.  Liam’s just come from the copier machine, with the stills he’d printed from the security camera in Styles’s own pub.

Zayn is standing in the viewing room, tugging on his bottom lip with his fingers and watching Tomlinson fidget, when Liam enters.

“Oh, hi.”

“Hey,” Zayn says, tearing his gaze away from Tomlinson to meet Liam’s eyes.

Liam frowns.  “Something happen?”

“No.  Just thinking.”

Liam narrows his eyes, but moves on, gesturing towards the opposite mirror.  “Caught at his own pub. Can you believe it?”

Zayn shrugs.  “He’s always liked to keep to his schedule.”

“Have a look at this,” Liam says, unable to keep the smug smirk from his face as Zayn takes the file folder from his hands and opens it.  Zayn’s eyes go wide. “This sort of thing typical for Styles?” Liam asks him.

Zayn hesitates, then nods reluctantly.  “Yeah. I couldn’t say for certain. But maybe.  Yeah.” He stares down at the photograph a bit longer before he closes the folder and hands it back. “Start with Harry,” he suggests.  “Show him those and he’ll talk, I reckon. If he gives you what you want, you won’t even have to show ‘em to Louis.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Niall objects playfully, having come into the room in the midst of Zayn’s examination of the photo.

Zayn shrugs.  “It’s your investigation.”  He gestures to Niall’s face, barely concealed smirk on his lips.  “Harry do that?”

Niall nods.

Zayn chuckles ruefully, shaking his head.  He makes to leave the room, but Liam stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Listen, mate.  We couldn’t have done this without you.  You were absolutely dispensable in this.”

Zayn smiles at him in polite confusion.

“Indispensable,” Niall corrects with a grin, clapping Liam on the shoulder.  “He means indispensable. Them pesky suffixes.”

“Prefixes,” Zayn says.  “Actually.”

They look awkwardly round at one another.

“Anyway,” Liam says.  “Got any plans for your time away, now that you’re out?  Going on holiday?”

“Nah,” Zayn says.  “First I’m gonna sleep for like, a week, then I think I’ll go home.  See my mum.”

“Sounds lovely,” Niall says.  “We’ll keep ya posted on the goings on here.”

“Yeah, please,” Zayn encourages with a nod.  “Looking forward to hearing the outcome. Especially with O’Neil.”

“Oh, he’ll do time easy, thanks to your tip off.  Really, we have you to thank for everything,” Liam praises again.

Zayn’s smile remains tired and thin.  “Cheers. See you at the trial, then.”

“Yeah, see you,” Niall agrees, as Zayn exits the room.   When Zayn’s gone, he blows out a breath of air, shaking his head.  “Fuck, he’s intense, isn’t he? Gone a bit too deep, if you ask me.  You ready to stir things up?”

“I think we should start with Styles, like Zayn suggested,” Liam says.  “Blackmail him a bit with these stills.”

Niall shrugs.  “Alright. Reckon it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

Liam squares his shoulders and leads the way into the interrogation room housing Styles.  Styles has his head in his arms, long hair flopping messily on the table. He looks up when the door closes behind them, eyes lingering first on Niall’s shiner, then on the folder in Liam’s hands.

“Hey, Harry,” Niall says easily.  “Long time no see. How’re things?”  

Styles’s jaw works and his leg jiggles under the table.

Niall continues on.  “You know, I’ve got to say, you were surprisingly easy to catch.  Real creature of habit, eh?”

Liam heaves himself away from the wall and stalks forward, opening the file folder in his hands.

“Same pub.”  He sets a grainy surveillance photograph onto the table in front of Styles.  In it, Harry can be made out easily, standing in a tight white tee in front of the bar.  “Same time.” He sets another one down, this one of Harry pushing purposefully through the crowd toward the rear of the establishment.  He can’t help but feel a glimmer of anticipation as he prepares to show Styles the next photo. He hasn’t moved, but his shoulders sit just a bit more tense as his eyes scan the two photos already in front of him.  Liam waves the third photograph around a bit, prolonging the anticipation. Across the table, Niall subtly rolls his eyes. Liam cuts it out, mollified, and drops the third photograph on top of the other two. “Shockingly different company, though, wouldn’t you say, Niall?”

“I was shocked,” Niall agrees mildly.  “Do you think Louis’d be shocked, Harry?  To know that his life partner put the moves on some bird not 24 hours after doing a runner and leaving him to be arrested?”

Styles bursts into tears.

“Please,” he begs.  He attempts to reach out for Niall, seated across from him, but his cuffs stop him.  “Please, you can’t tell Louis.”

Liam and Niall exchange identical looks of surprise.

“Hey,” Niall soothes, leaning forward to pat Styles awkwardly on the shoulder. “Why’re you so upset?”

Styles wipes at his eyes with his forearms.  “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Niall throws Liam a dubious look.  “Do what?” he prompts.

“I just wanted a break,” Styles hiccoughs.  “I was just a scared kid when we got together and he always looked after me, and I just felt so– so beholden to him.  And he’d always make me feel guilty when I’d even speak to other people, that I started feeling trapped. He’s so smart– he makes you think things are your idea even when they’re not.  He makes you feel guilty for everything he’s ever offered you, to keep you around, you know? Sometimes, I wonder if I love him or if he tricked me into loving him, you know?”

“Woah, woah, slow down,” Liam urges, sitting down next to Niall.  “We understand all that, we do. You’ve been in over your head a long time and just wanted a taste of freedom.”

“Look,” Niall says kindly.  “We know you’re not the big fish here.  We know you’re just doing what you’re supposed to do, cuz you’re scared.  We understand. That’s why we’re offering you a deal. You can walk out of here a free man, tonight, and start to break those ropes that’ve got you tied down.”  He waves away Liam’s panicked expression. They certainly have not been given clearance to make any sort of deal at the moment.

Styles stiffens.  “What about my charges?” he asks suspiciously.

Niall stares blankly at him.  “What charges?”

Styles lets out a slow breath.  His cheeks are blotchy from crying and there’s snot about to hit his upper lip.

“I’d need protection,” he says finally.

Liam suppresses the elated grin that threatens to spread across his face.  This has been too easy. “We can give you security detail in the time before the trial,” he offers.  “You’ll need to testify against Louis, and possibly others. We can’t guarantee _anything_ right now.” He sends a glare Niall’s way.  “It depends on the information you give us.”

Styles gnaws on his lip.  “I think I want my barrister.”

Liam and Niall are forced to clear out after that.  Five hours later, in the early hours of the morning, Styles’s deal is finalized, and Tomlinson is set to be indicted.  Styles hadn’t had much information, as Zayn had predicted, and he clammed up entirely when John Bosco’s name was even hinted at, but he knew enough– including that the night before the exchange, Tomlinson’d used the SatNav on his mobile to map the meeting place where O’Neil had been apprehended (which their tech guys will have likely learned by morning), and that he’d done the maths for the deal by hand at the desk in their study, and the paper would certainly still be in the bin.  He’d also agreed to testify against him in exchange for security detail before and following the trial until he relocates out of London.

Liam and Niall, not very keen to sift through rubbish, send lower level officers to do the bidding.  It’s exactly where Styles said it would be.

Styles walks out of Headquarters a free man as the sun rises, leaving behind his partner of over ten years without so much as a backward glance.  Meanwhile, Liam and Niall are tasked with explaining to Tomlinson just exactly why he’s being indicted.

Niall takes particular pleasure in giving the news.  “Your boy rolled on you,” he tells a stock-still and haggard Tomlinson, not moments after Styles’s dismissal.  “Just like that. You kept him out of trouble all this time, and this is how he repays you.”

Tomlinson looks torn between skepticism and devastation.  His face is ashen.  His hands shake as they tug the baggy LPD jumper sleeves over his fingers.  “No,” he says, voice thin. “Harry wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, he did,” Niall says shortly. “Tell me, shouldn’t you have known your relationship was one of convenience for him?  Bright bloke like you, I’d’ve thought you’d see through the fact that he was waiting for the day to claw his way away from you.”  He’s hoping for some sort of retaliation from Tomlinson, something he’ll reveal out of anger that implicates Styles, but Tomlinson gives them nothing but a dead-eyed stare, the light having left them at Niall’s words.

Liam almost feels bad for him.

“Least loyalty is important to one of them,” Niall comments mildly, once they leave Tomlinson to be processed.  

“Can you believe Styles folded that easily?” Liam asks, barely suppressing a yawn as they go to their dressing room to pack up for a much needed day off once it’s quitting time.  They’ve been at it for over 24 hours now, without much more than a few hours of sleep.

“Honestly, I was surprised,” Niall admits.  “Thought they’d maybe had something real. Turns out Styles was just an opportunistic  leech with a pretty face.”

They part ways at the car park of their building, and Liam travels the few miles to his flat on autopilot, dead on his feet.  He manages to eat a pot of yogurt, brush his teeth, take off his trousers, and pull his blackout curtains closed, before falling face first into bed.

He’s woken as abruptly as he’d fallen asleep, and squints under the harsh glare of his ringing mobile in the pitch dark room.  Before he accepts the call from Marco, he’s shocked to see that he’d slept until near ten in the morning.

“Hello?” He rasps, throat bone dry,

“Payne,” his chief snaps.  “I need you in now. Styles is dead.”

//

There isn’t a body, but there’s blood.  So much of it that their coroner is insistent that Styles’s injuries were not remotely survivable.  From the patterns, it looks as though he was forcibly placed in the bathtub and then had his wrists slit until he’d died from loss of blood, only to be yanked back out again and onto a tarp for disposal.  Or, more likely, removal of body parts before disposal.

“How did this happen?” Liam keeps asking, over and over.  Styles had elected to go home to the flat he and Tomlinson shared.  The building is already high security, including needing a key to get to the penthouse.  The police security parked outside had seen nothing suspicious until the housekeeper made the emergency call.

“We’re reviewing security footage now,” Marco tells him.  “Plenty of people were out and in today, but all of them were residents or had clearance.  So far none of them have entered or exited with anything larger than a rucksack.”

“Anyone checked the rubbish?” Niall asks, as they leave the crime scene for the lounge, where it’s equally chaotic but much less grisly.  There’s clear evidence of a struggle- a broken lamp across the floor and a chair knocked over at the kitchen island. The fridge door is also wide open, and the flat is beginning to reek of onions.  At least it covers the smell of blood.

Marco rolls his eyes.  “Of course we bloody did.  You’d have known that if you’d gotten here with the rest of us instead of catching up on your beauty sleep.”

“We aren’t all machines like you,” Niall grumbles.

“This complex has a rubbish chute on each floor, where it’s all collected in a dumpster in the basement. The problem is, it’s pick up day.  We’ve got a call into the company and they’re attempting to track whereabouts in the landfill it was dumped.”

“Jesus,” Niall groans.  “He’ll be decomposed before we find him.”

“Does no one find this fishy?” Liam wonders.  “I mean, we’ve got no evidence of forced entry into the building, and no body.   Did the killer get lucky with the rubbish day, or was it someone who knew the building well enough to know these things?”

“Tomlinson,” Marco says grimly.  “It was my first thought.”

“Could have been someone from O’Neil’s side, or even Bosco,” Liam adds.  None of them are likely very happy with Styles at the moment. “Do you really think Tomlinson could be capable of doing that to his partner?  Not to mention, to have gotten the word out so quickly?” They all know how news travels throughout the prison system, but organizing and completing a hit from the inside in less than twenty four hours is impressive.  And terrifying.

“He is well connected,” Marco says.

“And he just found out that the love of his life sent him up the creek without so much as a kiss goodbye.  Imagine what he’d done if he found out about the girl from the pub,” Niall insists.

Liam persists. “But, to have him murdered in cold blood?”  He shakes his head. He’s not sure he sees it.

“We haven’t found the body yet,” Marco points out, on principle only.  They all know Styles did not survive this.

Liam holds up a hand.  “Not it for being the one to break the news to Tomlinson.”

It’s Zayn who does it in the end, curiously.  Liam isn’t present for the interrogation, but Marco informs them afterwards how it went.  Zayn thought that his presence might cause Tomlinson to let his guard down. Privately, Liam thinks it might actually be excessively cruel, especially if Tomlinson hadn’t done it.  To discover in the course of a few short days that both your best friend and your lover were not who you thought they were? Criminal or not, Liam feels pity for him.

Tomlinson had cried, according to Marco. He’d vehemently denied any involvement and cursed the NCA for Harry’s lack of protection when they’d made a deal.

John Bosco is interviewed as a person of interest, shockingly on his own accord, in the conference room of one of his legitimate hotel chains.  He’s seated behind the table when Liam and Niall are escorted in, and doesn’t rise to his feet, choosing instead to gesture to a pair of chairs across from him.  Bosco is older in person than he looks in surveillance footage, with a face that tells the story of a rough life, and the attitude of a man desperate to rise beyond his station.

“Officers,” he says.  “I can’t imagine why you think you’d have business with me.  But please, sit.”

“We’re here about Harry Styles,” Niall says, cutting to the chase.  “As I’m sure you know, his partner, your employee Louis Tomlinson, was arrested in connection with a large sale of cocaine.  Now, Styles cannot be located at the moment. We were wondering if you knew anything about that.”

Bosco shifts his face into some sort of false sympathy.  He’s wearing a three piece suit that’s too large round the shoulders and has an impressive number of diamonds on his fingers.   “Yes, I’ve heard. I’m very disappointed to discover Louis’s double life. He was very efficient, and sharp as a tack. I’m certain I’ve lost a fair bit of money to him.  Quite the eye for gambling, that one. I’m sorry to hear what he’s got himself mixed up in– such a bright future, wasted. And now I’ve got to find someone else to oversee my properties.  A real shame, all around.”

Niall hums.  “Indeed. And what do you know of Harry Styles?  Have you met him?”

“Perhaps I have, in passing,” Bosco says, allowing a flicker of genuine dislike to cross his face before his smooth mask is replaced.  “Louis has always been… discreet with his preferences. As he should.”

Liam shifts in his chair.  “Have you any idea where Styles might have disappeared to?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Bosco says.  “As I said, I didn’t know him. Louis never spoke of him.  I probably wouldn’t even know him from Adam, if he were stood in front of me now.”

“What a lying prick,” Niall says later, as they’re walking back to the car park.  “The worst part about it is he knows we know what Tomlinson’s real business was with him, and we can’t do shit about it.”

“D’you think he was telling the truth when he said he’d never been around Styles?”  Liam asks, remembering the look on Bosco’s face when he’d been brought up.

“I’m not sure,” Niall says.  “But I’m certain he’s a homophobe.”

“I sort of feel like I just met a celebrity, in our world,” Liam says.  “We were just in the same room as the infamous John Bosco.”

Niall rolls his eyes.  “Next time you can ask for his autograph.”  

//

Weeks pass.  Styles remains assumed dead, with no other leads.  O’Neil denies any knowledge, of course, and they have no evidence whatsoever, aside from the confirmation that the blood is a definite DNA match for Styles.  They have no video footage from any security camera, no fingerprints, no suspicious activity reported. Nothing. The case is cold.

Tomlinson’s case, on the other hand, is due in court on a Monday, a month and a half after his arrest.  He’d been denied bail, and was forced to sit in prison, in solitary confinement for his own safety, awaiting his trial. Liam and Niall meet at the front of the building on the big day, eager to move forward.  

“Looking sharp, Horan,” Liam comments, knowing Niall loves the way he looks in a suit.  Liam prefers a good mesh tank.

“Not as sharp as Malik,” Niall praises loudly, whistling.  Liam turns to to see Zayn slinking up to them in a burgundy suit, his hair styled in a quiff, and a cigarette in his mouth.  “Where’s the runway?”

Zayn glares, unamused, and tosses his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with more force than necessary.

“Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” Niall demands.  “You should be happy to be back in the land of the living, but you still look like death warmed over.”

Zayn shrugs, scuffing his dress shoe against the pavement.  “Sorry. Just been a tougher transition than I thought.”

Liam nods in commiseration.  He’s never been in Zayn’s situation, but he knows it can’t be easy, leaving a life you’ve lived for so long behind, even if it wasn’t reality.

“Well, at least you can see the fruits of your labor today,” Liam offers as consolation.  “If all goes well, Tomlinson will be behind bars for a long time.”

Zayn nods, but he doesn’t look mollified.  If anything, he looks more nervous.

“See you in there,” he says, then turns to enter the building.

“Think he might have a bit of the Stockholm Syndrome, if you know what I mean,” Niall murmurs to him as they trail Zayn into the courthouse.

Liam hadn’t thought of it that way, but it’s not a terrible theory, actually.

//

“Charges dismissed,” Niall shouts for the dozenth time, slamming his pint onto the table.  “Dismissed! Can you believe it? After all that?”

“I can’t,” Liam repeats again.  It seems utterly impossible. It should have been utterly impossible.

“He was bribed,” Niall insists.  “Had to have been. He heard all the evidence.  He heard Petey O’Neil and fucking Zayn’s testimonies.”  

Liam shrugs.  Zayn’s testimony hadn’t been bulletproof, not by a long shot.  He claimed Louis only spoke in code and had only ever referred to anything as ‘business’ and ‘favors’, never even referring to O’Neil by name.  The real star of the show was Tomlinson. He lied beautifully, insisting he had nothing to do with the exchange and explaining his presence in the area as a surprise for his boyfriend with pastries from his former place of work.  His team produced the evidence: a receipt for 50 quid worth of baked goods.

“Well, he was forced to throw out everything Styles gave us,” Liam reminds Niall feebly.

“Right, because he didn’t show up in court.  The bloke was fucking murdered by the suspect, of course he couldn’t show up!”

Niall takes another gulp of beer and crashes his pint right back down again.  It sloshes all over his hand. Liam gathers a few paper napkins and offers them to his partner.

“Mate, you’re moments away from flipping the table.”

“How are you not more upset by this?” Niall demands, tossing the napkins aside in favor of licking the beer off his fingers, then wiping them on his trousers.  “Tomlinson walked today! Everyone knows he’s a dealer. Everyone knows he works for Bosco.”

“There’s no paper trail of that, though,” Liam reminds him.  Bosco is famously slick like oil.

“Well, they should’ve locked him up due to word of mouth alone.”

“I know,” Liam says.  “It is frustrating. But think about his life right now.  He’s just got out of prison- again- and he’s gone home to an empty flat and no one left.  His family’s written him off, his boyfriend turned on him and then died–”

“Was murdered,” Niall interrupts.

“–he’s got a price tag on his head to boot,” Liam continues loudly.  “The future wasn’t great for Louis Tomlinson no matter how you slice it.”

Niall shakes his head at him.  “You’re too goddamn soft for this job, Liam Payne.  I’ve always thought it, now I’m saying it.”

“You’ve said it before.”  Liam pats Niall’s hand. “After nearly every case, I reckon.”

Niall doesn’t have much time to grumble about the unfairness of it all.  Two days later, they sit at their desks, grey-faced, as they watch footage of Louis Tomlinson jumping off a bridge.

The video is grainy, shot quite far away by a pedestrian walking across the opposite side of the bridge, but Tomlinson’s car is in the shot and his number plates have been identified.  The man certainly looks like Tomlinson, and they have security footage of him leaving the car park at his flat within the same hour. Liam has no doubts that it’s Louis Tomlinson in this video.

“No body recovered yet,” Liam tells Jen, who’s come from her desk to look over his shoulder.  She’s already back from maternity leave. Her daughter is called Poppy, and she’s adorable. “Zayn said Louis can’t swim.”  It had been Zayn who’d delivered the news about Louis. It had been curious, really, because he’d almost looked relieved when he gave the news.  Not at all gutted, like both Liam and Niall had expected based on his earlier behavior. Maybe some time away from the case has cleared his mind about his role a bit.

“Well I wouldn’t trust Zayn as far as I could throw him at this point,” Niall mutters, still salty about Zayn’s testimony.  “But I agree that there’s no way that’s not Tomlinson in the video, and there’s no way he’s not at the bottom of the river right now.”  

“Bit romantic, in a way,” Liam muses.  “He couldn’t fathom living without Styles, so he jumped to his death.”

Niall stares at him, incredulous.  “The man ordered his brutal murder because he double crossed him, Payno.  The fuck is wrong with you?”

“We don’t know it was him that ordered the hit,” Liam says.  “We hardly even really pursued Bosco as a suspect. You even said so yourself that heads might roll if someone implicated Bosco’s golden boy.”

Niall stares at him.  “It was him that ordered the hit.  He couldn’t let Styles live for what he did, and he couldn’t live without Styles.”

“Like I said, romantic,” Liam argues.

Niall shakes his head slowly.  “You’re fucked up, mate. Anyway, let’s celebrate a case closed with a pint, yeah?”

“Can you believe it?” Liam says, leaning back in his chair.  “O’Neil, Tomlinson, and Styles, all off the streets in a matter of months.”

“A dream come true, really.  Minus the brutal murder-suicide,” Niall says with a wince.

“ _Alleged_ ,” Liam reminds him.

“Everything was suspiciously easy, though, don’t you think?”  Jen pipes in.

Liam frowns.  “What do you mean?”

“Detective Malik gives you a tip that gets O’Neil.  You apprehend Tomlinson in his home, easy as pie. You apprehend Styles at his pub easy as pie.  Styles dies, just like that. Then Tomlinson kicks it, too.” Jen gestures to the video still playing on Liam’s computer.  He closes the window.

“You’re forgetting the part where the judge was bribed to drop all charges against Tomlinson,” Liam tells her.  “And the fact that Bosco is still out there, probably eating bonbons on a bed full of drug money.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees.  “This case wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.  I found my first grey hair the other day, and it’s all because of Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles and their fucked up relationship.”

“And not at all because of Niall Horan and _his_ fucked up relationships?” Jen asks archly.

Niall ignores her.  “I’m cutting out early and going for a pint.  You two arseholes are welcome to join me.”

Jen shrugs.  “Sure. I can have a few before I need to pump and dump.”

Liam stands from his desk.  “Yeah, I could use a drink too.”

He thinks Styles’s open murder case might stay in the back of his mind for a lifetime.  He’s still not certain that Tomlinson did it, but he supposes he’ll have to be content with possibly never knowing for certain.  He throws out a quick plea to the universe to allow the both of them rest in peace, shuts his laptop, and joins Niall and Jen at the door.

“We should’ve thought bigger,” Niall says as the exit the office together.  “If what Zayn says was true about Tomlinson wanting to get out, we could’ve struck a deal with him to set up Bosco.  We could’ve finally had our hands on the real bad guy here.”

“Well, why didn’t you think of that a few months ago?” Liam demands.  It’s brilliant, actually. No telling whether Tomlinson would’ve gone for it, but Liam reckons a bit of threats could have got him there.

Niall shrugs.  “No use thinking of it now, I suppose.  It’s above my pay scale, anyhow. This organization is run by idiots.”

Jen and Liam nod in agreement.

“Well, we’ll know for next time,” Liam says.

Niall laughs.  "Next time.  Right, Payno."

Anyway.  Onto the next case.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case) will be updated along with the story!


	2. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd! All mistakes are my own!
> 
> Just a note that the basic makeup of L's real life family was used (along with two names), but this is a fictional story and in no way a reflection of real life people.

LOUIS

MOORLAND PRISON, SOUTH YORKSHIRE

17 APRIL, 2012

The library is always practically empty at this time of day, which is almost a shame, if he thinks beyond his own personal needs.  As it is though, he’s thankful for the silence.

He was never one to read for pleasure as a child, preferring instead to play football with his mates, or watch television– when he wasn’t helping his mother with his sisters, or working odd jobs to help keep food on the table.  But there isn’t much else to do whilst incarcerated.

It’s been trial and error to discover what sort of books keep his attention.  He discovered he’s not too keen on fiction books after attempting a few of various genres. He also tried an autobiography about David Beckham, and couldn’t get through that either.  He’s realized, after stumbling upon the business and economics section of the stacks, that he’d rather spend his time studying real-life topics that may one day help him in the future.  (He doesn’t really know who he’s kidding– he’s an underclass, twenty-year-old sixth form drop out with a record. Likely the only advantages he’ll get in life are the ones he bribes and steals. He’s accepted it, mostly, but it can’t hurt to broaden the mind, just in case.)

“It’s Louis,” someone leers suddenly behind him.  It takes all of his effort not to flinch as someone lays a meaty hand heavily on the table next to Louis’s book.  The bloke’s name is Parker, but everyone calls him Porker, on account of his large size and hog-like appearance. He’s also an insecure bully. “Whatcha doing, Louise?”

Louis lets out a long-suffering sigh, with as much nonchalance as he can manage.  He hadn’t had too much trouble whilst in Young Offenders Institution years ago.  Most of the boys were his size, and amateur fuck-ups, eager to be led by someone like Louis, who’s sharp tongue and quick thinking stood out amongst the others.  Prison has been different. He’s with men twice his size and triple his crimes. It may be a low security prison, but it’s still a dangerous place for someone like Louis.  He’s smart, but he’s also pretty. The most he’s gotten so far are leers and threats, and he’s keen to keep it that way.

“Just doing some light reading,” Louis says, eyes on his book.  “Did you get lost on the way to the weight room, Porker?”

Porker waggles his eyebrows.  “Seen you sittin’ here through the window.  Thought you might like something else to sit on.”

“I’m quite alright, thanks,” Louis says breezily.  “Besides, I’ve seen you in the shower, Porker. Doubt it would feel much different than my arse on this chair right now.”

He’s got Porker’s hand around his neck before he can blink, hoisted off his seat and up onto his tiptoes by a big, angry felon.  “You think you’re better than everyone else, eh? I’ll show you who’s better.“

“Oi!” someone shouts, loud enough for Porker to pause and loosen his grip.  Louis yanks Porker’s hands away from his neck and stumbles sideways, taking a heaving breath whilst he’s got the chance.

There’s a teenager, younger than Louis, from the looks of him, striding toward them through the aisle directly across from them.  He’s gangly, but he moves with purpose, eyes hot with rage. He’s got a metal bookend in his hand.

Porker hesitates, weighing his odds, then growls, shoving Louis hard enough that he stumbles.  “Next time I see you alone you won’t be sitting down for a week, ya poof. Your little boyfriend too.”  He marches off, pointing a threatening finger the other boy’s way for good measure, before he rounds the corner.

“What does that make you, then, if you wanted me to sit on it?” Louis calls after him as he rights himself, adjusting his well-worn jumper.  There’s a tear at the seam of the collar, and he’d rather not see that grow larger. It gets cold at night in his cell block, and this jumper reminds him of home.

“I wouldn’t engage him further, if I were you,” the boy advises, coming to a stop at Louis’s table.  He looks significantly less dangerous now that the fire has left his eyes. He’s barely bigger than Louis himself, actually.

Louis glares at him coolly as he sits back down.  “He didn’t even hear me, anyway.” He opens his book to the page he left off, then clears his throat.  “I could’ve handled him, you know.” They both obviously know it isn’t true. Louis’s got mates in prison that’ll have his back if need be, and he usually does stay with the group, but the rest of them are even less apt to reading than Louis is.  He supposes he’ll need to be extra vigilant now when he’s alone.

“I know you could handle him,” the boy says, and Louis appreciates the false confidence.  He sets the metal bookend on the table, then sits down in a chair across from him. “Just felt good to threaten someone.  Almost wish I could’ve hit him.”

Louis scoffs.  “You must be new.”  He’d have recognized him if he weren’t.  Louis’s not great with names, but he’s got an eye for faces.  Well– searching for motives within faces, anyway. This lad wants something, but Louis’s not sure what.

The boy freezes, then fusses with his hair.  It’s curly and frizzy, the cheap prison shampoo apparently doing little to tame it.  “Oh, erm, is it that obvious?”

“Round here, people don’t exactly help one another out without an ulterior motive.”

“Oh,” the boy says, a bit sheepish.  “Well, should I like, demand something of you now?”  

Louis pretends to focus back on his book.  “No.”

They sit silently across from one another for an agonizing thirty seconds.  The bloke makes curiously strong eye contact. Louis doesn’t do well with silence or awkward staring contests, but he never cracks first.

“I’m Harry,” the boy says finally, sticking his hand under Louis’s nose.

Louis sighs.  He closes his book and shakes Harry’s hand.  “Louis.”

“Louis,” Harry repeats.  “Cool.” He’s got dimples and moss-green eyes, and nice, straight teeth behind full lips.  He’d be quite pretty, if it weren’t for the too-large nose and vaguely serial killer-esque stare.

“So what’re you in for, Harry?” Louis asks, mostly to be polite.  Mostly.

Harry leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath, as if to prepare to tell his life story.  “Well, my parents kicked me out of the house when I was sixteen.“

“Why?”

Harry hesitates, fussing with his hair.  It’s his tell. “Just wasn’t the son they wanted, I suppose.  Anyway, I’ve slept on friends’ sofas for the past few years. Got caught breaking into someone’s flat a few weeks after I turned eighteen.  I was only gonna take shit I needed, it’s been so bloody cold this winter.”

Louis nods solemnly.  He knows what that’s like.  He recognizes that stealing others’ belongings isn’t right, but there are times when there’s no other choice.  As if he’d let his little sisters walk to school with no coats, or go to bed without at least a bit of food in their bellies.

Harry continues.  “So I got busted for theft, and then I got assault charges on top.”

“How come?” Louis wonders.

Harry grins, caught somewhere between pride and embarrassment.  “Punched a copper.”

Louis smirks, glancing pointedly at the makeshift weapon on the table.  “Aggressive, are you?”

Harry’s dimple is terribly distracting.  “Only with people who deserve it.”

“How old are you?” Louis asks.

“Eighteen,” Harry tells him.  “Just turned when I was arrested.”  He huffs. “Wish I could go back in time and get arrested a few weeks sooner.”

“Or you could go back in time and not get caught, instead,” Louis offers dryly.  

Harry’s brow puckers. “Oh, yeah.”

Louis snorts.  “I’m guessing this is your first time in?”

“Yeah,” Harry says.  “What about you?”

“No,” Louis says shortly.

“Oh,” Harry says. He rubs at his nose with the knuckle on his forefinger, then adjusts his wild fringe.  “What’re you in for, then?”

“The first time, or this time?”

Harry shrugs.  “Both?”

Louis shifts in his chair.  “First time was for blitzing.  I was in the getaway car.” He’d gotten in with a rough crowd at sixteen, and hadn’t even been fully aware of the plan before a few of his dumber, older mates were implementing it.  The courts didn’t care. “This time was for illegal gambling.” He’s been scamming people out of their money since he was in primary, when he realized his street smarts and head for numbers and logic could get him further than any formal schooling could.

Harry whistles.  “Wow.”

Louis inwardly preens a little, both because this boy is seemingly impressed by Louis’s poor life choices, and because he _likes_ that he’s impressed.

“Does shit like that happen a lot?” Harry asks, gesturing toward the library exit with the jut of his chin.

“You mean with Porker?” Louis shrugs.  “Not so much, before today. Suppose I’ll need to get some of my idiot mates to come with me now, or summat.  If I ever get to finish this book, that is.” He looks pointedly from Harry’s face down to his open book.

Harry ignores the cue. “I could meet you here.”

Louis shoots him a suspicious glare.  “Why would you want to do that?”

Harry shrugs, going for nonchalant but coming across slightly desperate.  “Power in numbers, and that? And I used to like to read.”

Louis raises an eyebrow.  “Used to?”

Harry ducks his head, nodding minutely.  “When I was in school. Never took my A-Levels.”

Louis feels a flash of pity for the teenager across from him.  Thrust into a hard knock life on account of shitty parents, with no apparent street smarts to help break his fall– willingness to be physically aggressive excepting.

“Well, I didn’t either, and look where it got me,” he jokes as he spreads his arms wide, reverting to his failsafe of humor, what he’s always done to make his sisters laugh when they’re feeling sad, or insecure.  Harry doesn’t quite laugh, but he does snuffle appreciatively.

After several more seconds of uncomfortable silence, Louis cracks.  “Well then, if we’re going to have our own little book club, you’d best go find a book.”  

Harry’s grin stretches wide across his face as he scrambles up and heads down into the stacks.  Louis can’t help but reluctantly smile into his own book in response.

From here on out, they’re a bit of a duo, him and Harry.  It happens so suddenly, but four weeks later and Harry’s mingling with the other lads in their little crew during outdoors time, and seated with them at meals and joining in for cards in the evenings.  Louis can honestly say he’s never had such a sudden attachment to someone who wasn’t family. He recognizes that it isn’t the smartest of moves, because if there’s two things he knows, it’s that people look out for themselves first, and they always leave.

But Harry’s quite nice to look at, and he laughs at every one of Louis’s jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny.  Louis likes the way they sit shoulder to shoulder at dinner, and the way Harry will knock knees with him under the table when he wants to read aloud some of the awful poetry he’s fond of.

The urge to tell Harry all of his deepest secrets is strong and confusing.  Louis opens up to him more than he has anyone, during their rare moments they have alone.  He even tries to teach him how to count cards, a skill he’s kept close to his chest ever since he cheated his way to his first win at thirteen.  He shows Harry pictures of his sisters, and even comes close to wiping away tears in his presence after a rare connected phone call with his mum, who hasn’t got any money to spare on loading the mobile but does it every few weeks anyway, just for Louis.

And Harry, in turn, shares things with Louis, narrating his childhood in such detail that Louis feels like he was there alongside him.  He tells Louis that he’s the best listener he’s ever met, which is a compliment Louis’s never received, and probably has more to do with Harry’s lack of stable relationships than anything else.

There’s one thing Louis doesn’t tell him, though.  He doesn’t tell him that he sometimes watches Harry’s mouth when he tells a long-winded story, or that he occasionally thinks about what the bulge in Harry’s threadbare joggers might look like unclothed.  Prison isn’t exactly the place for a conversation like that, though. He thinks Harry might feel the same butterflies he feels when their hands brush. He’s quite certain, actually, but there’s nothing either of them can do about it.  Not here.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.  Harry’s a blip in his life. He’d probably regret opening up so much to a stranger if he thought they’d ever see one another again.  As it is, Louis enjoys their strange, symbiotic friendship whilst it lasts.

He’s released on a rainy Thursday in May.  His mate, Stan, dashes out from his beat up ‘93 Fiesta with an umbrella like Louis’s the bloody king of England.  They share a quick, tight hug, then climb into the car. Stan hands Louis a cigarette and lighter immediately and Louis moans in pleasure.  He’s had cigarettes while locked up, of course, but the gesture is so sweet that he says nothing, choosing instead to enjoy the smell of exhaust, the feeling of the engine as Stan pulls away from the curb, and the wet air on his face when he cranks the window down a crack.

“Thought maybe one of the girls would have joined you,” Louis says.  He’d known not to expect his mother. For one, they haven’t got a car, even if they could afford the petrol, and she’s likely working.

Stan laughs.  “School’s in session, Lou.”

“Oh, yeah.  Right.” He knocks his head back onto the headrest.  “Fuck, I can’t wait to see them. Listening to their voices isn’t enough.  They’re shits, but I miss ‘em, you know?” Stan hums, focused on the road. Louis shoots him a curious look, but continues.  “Did Lottie ever kick that Michael bloke to the curb? I told her she was too young to be seeing anyone that wasn’t in her year. Maybe not even then.”

“Yeah, she’s stopped with him,” Stan says.  “Took a bit of convincing. Told her she didn’t want to date someone with a future like her brother’s.”

Louis punches him in the arm.  He’s got a point, though.

Stan’s been in Louis’s life since they were children, and he’s the best friend Louis could ask for.  He came to visit him when Louis was temporarily taken from his mother’s custody after one too many teacher reports back in primary;  rode his bike fifteen miles to Louis’s foster home and got in loads of trouble when he returned after dark. He covered for him when Louis would have to skip school to care for his sisters.  He helped him find odd jobs to do before he was legal to work. He’s seen it all, seen everything Louis’s mum has gone through, raising five children by herself without steady work, or a decent partner to fall back on.  (There’ve been plenty of rotten boyfriends, that’s for certain. Louis’s got a permanent scar just above his eyebrow from a belt buckle courtesy of one of them. The terrible ones– the ones that drink too much or get too handsy or don’t like the fact that his mum’s got children to feed and clothe– they make everything worse.)

“What was it like, then?” Stan wonders.  “Like in the movies?” Stan’s a good boy, if a bit naive.  He’s seen his fair share of trouble, thanks to Louis, mostly, but he’s never been on the other side of the law.

“It was fine,” Louis says.  “Long as you make the right friends and keep your head down, nothing to it.”

“Really?” Stan asks skeptically.  “No riots, no prison bitches, nothing?”

Louis shrugs.  “Mostly a lot of sleeping and reading, if I’m honest.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t get any action?”

Louis narrows his eyes.  “No. What are you implying?”

Stan glances almost guiltily his way.  “Just wanted to be sure you were alright.”

The silence weighs, heavy yet meaningful, in the few seconds that pass.

Louis nods.  “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Stan nods back.  “That’s good, yeah.”

“Thanks for asking, though,” Louis says.

Stan shrugs, then his face brightens.  “You hungry?” He waggles his eyebrows as the Golden Arches come into view ahead of them.

“Starved,” Louis groans.  “Oh god, me mouth’s watering just thinking of it.”

Stan puts on his indicator.  “Thought you wouldn’t mind stopping for a bite before your mum’s house.”

“You thought right.  You’ll have to spot me though, sorry.”

Stan scoffs.  “I can manage a meal off the dollar menu.”

“How’s work going for you, anyhow?”  Stan’s worked since lower sixth for a lawn and landscaping business, working his way up from mowing and fertilizing to managing small crews of workers.

Stan shrugs.  “Same old. Just gearing up for the summer season.  I’ve got that job for you if you want it. It’s manual labor though, just as a warning.”

Louis grins.  “Long as I can take my top off.  Get a bit of color.”

Stan rolls his eyes fondly.  “Just promise me you won’t make me regret it, alright?  I’ve stuck my neck out for you.”

“I’ll be on me best behavior,” Louis lies.  “I’ll even take bets after hours.” Also a lie.  “Besides, I’ve got to keep an over the table job for the conditions of my release.”

He enjoys his first Big Mac in months, then Stan drops him at his mother’s tiny townhouse and he gets to hug each of his sisters in turn.  His mum cries tears of joy when she comes home from her late evening shift to find him at her kitchen table, and she stays up several more hours to speak with him despite Louis’s persistent urging for her to go to bed and get some rest.

Life begins again, and it’s almost as if he were never away.  He starts his job with Stan’s company, waking far too early in the morning to mow lawns and pull weeds until dinner time.  He often goes to his mum’s to eat with the girls and stay at home until his she comes home from her shift. Then he walks back to Stan’s tiny flat, where they’ve converted a corner of his living room into a sleeping area with some curtains and nails and an old mattress he bought at the charity shop for eight pounds.

Harry calls three and a half weeks after Louis’s release.

Louis’s at his mother’s when it happens.  He’s just turned on a film for the littlest girls after supper, when Stan barges in the door.

“Tommo, why are your inmate friends calling my mobile?”

Louis perks up, shocked.  “He called you? Did you accept it?”

Stan glowers at him.  “Shouldn't've, but I did.  Said his name was Harry. I told him to call back in fifteen and rushed over here.”

Louis can’t help but grin as he pulls Stan into the kitchen out of earshot of his curious, but sleepy youngest sisters.  “You’re a Saint, Stanley.”

He hadn’t thought Harry would ever call when he offered him Stan’s number on a strip of paper the morning of his release.  Even though theirs had been a friendship of circumstances, Harry’s eyes had been a bit watery when they’d said goodbye. Despite his attempts to move forward, Louis has thought about him a bit during lonely nights in the past few weeks, wondering what could have been, had they met one another in a different scenario, or if it’d been the prison effect that made Louis question Harry’s sexuality.  With no birds around to flirt with, Harry might’ve gone for the next best thing. Now that he’s out of Moorland, Louis’s not so sure if the feeling that Harry was like him was a legitimate one.

It’ll be nice to catch up, anyhow.

Louis and Stan chat idly whilst they wait for Stan’s mobile to ring.  Louis thinks he’s playing the part of nonchalant quite well, even though his heartbeat is betraying him.  He nods along convincingly enough as Stan drones on. He’s been listening to one of Stan’s many ‘should I or shouldn’t I call her’ debates for nearly thirty minutes by the time Stan’s mobile is buzzing.

Louis picks up on the first ring, turning his back on Stan as he accepts the call from Moorland.

“Hello?”

“Hi– Louis?”

Louis can’t keep the grin from his voice.  “That’s me.”

“Hi, it’s erm, Harry? From prison?”

Louis laughs.  “I figured as much when I accepted the call, love.”

Harry chuckles too, clearly embarrassed, and curiously nervous.  “How’re things?”

“Things are good,” Louis says.  “Got that job I told you about.”

“Oh really?” Harry says excitedly.  “That’s great, Lou!”

Stan’s staring at him curiously when Louis chances a glance over his shoulder.  “How’re things inside?”

“Fine,” Harry says.  “Timothy said to say hey.”

“Tell him hey back.”

There’s an awkward few seconds of silence as Harry inhales like he’s about to say something, and then doesn’t.

“What’s up?” Louis urges.

Harry clears his throat. “It’s just– well, I’m being released tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Louis says, pleased yet suspicious.  “That’s ace, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.  “Actually, um, I was wondering if I might be able to crash with you for a bit?”

Louis feels a curious tug-of-war of emotions at Harry’s words: excitement at the idea of seeing Harry again, and a twinge of hurt that Harry needing somewhere to crash is the only reason he bothered to call.

“Just until I get on my feet again,” Harry is rushing to say on the other line, the fastest Louis’s ever heard him speak.  “A few weeks, maybe? I’ll do all the cooking and cleaning as payment.”

Louis is silent, turning to gaze pensively at Stan, who stares back in confusion.  “I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I know it’s... I’m sorry for asking. It’s just, I haven’t got anywhere else to go, and you’ve been the best friend I’ve had in awhile–”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts.  “Harry, it’s fine. You can come stay with us.”

Stan’s jaw drops in outrage.  “What?” he hisses. “You’d better not be offering my flat to one of your convict mates!”

“It’s fine,” Louis tells him.  It will be fine. Harry’ll hang around until something better comes along, that’s all.  “Harry’s harmless, right Harry?”

“Oh, is that your–” Harry cuts himself off abruptly.  “I thought you lived with your family.”

“Sometimes I stay with them,” Louis says.  “Mostly I stay at Stan’s.”

“He’s not taking my sofa,” Stan says petulantly.  “He can sleep on the floor.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes.  “Stan. Your best mate, right?”

“The one and only,” Louis agrees, lurching forward to twist Stan’s nipple.  Stan, faster than he looks on account of being onto Louis’s tricks for years, dodges it and slaps his arm.  Hard. “I’ve got work in the morning, so I won’t be able to pick you up. That alright?”

“Not like I’d let you use my car anyhow,” Stan grumbles.

“Course,” Harry says.  “Just give me the address and l’ll find my way.  I’ve got a bit of money. Doncaster, yeah?”

“Yep, good old Donny.  Have you got a mobile or anything I can ring in case you don’t turn up by nightfall?”

“No,” Harry says regretfully.  “I’ve got one, but there’s no minutes.”

Louis wasn’t really expecting anything different.  “Okay, so if you don’t come by nightfall we’ll call the police.”

Harry snorts.  “Like the police would care.”

“Well, I’d throw a holy fit until they found you, anyway,” Louis declares.  “I can be very persuasive.”

“Annoying, you mean,” Stan butts in.  “The unique ability to slowly and painfully wear people down.”

Louis ignores him.  “Have you got a pen and paper handy?” he asks Harry.

“No, but I’ve got a good memory,” Harry says.  “I’ll recite it til I get back to my bunk and jot it down.”

Louis grimaces in concern but gives Harry the address anyway, making Harry repeat it back to him three times before they’re abruptly cut off as the time on Harry’s call runs out.

The wait for Harry to arrive is excruciating.  Louis tosses and turns once he’s left his mum’s and is lying down for the night, then spends a miserable several hours in the rain trimming hedges the next morning.  The other lads on his crew definitely notice a change in his mood, but they give up asking after an hour, and don’t even bother him about bets for the amateur boxing match next week.

Harry hasn’t arrived by the time Louis’s off work at five, for which Louis is partly grateful and partly concerned.  He’s immensely glad Stan’s not around whilst he gets ready, however. Stan would take one look at the outfit Louis’s chosen (tight white tee and teal trousers, rolled up at the ankles), and the hair he’s carefully styled, and question exactly what Louis’s motives are.

Louis’s not sure himself what his motives are.

He takes one last look in the mirror before he goes back into the lounge and flops down on the sofa.  He figures if Harry had potentially been interested in him at his worst, his best will be more than adequate.  Not that he’s making any assumptions. Feeling hopeful, more like.

He hears voices in the hall, and then the click of the lock, and the door swings open to reveal Stan returning from work, with Harry right behind him.  Harry looks the same as he had a month ago, only instead of a jumper he’s in a threadbare white t-shirt. He’s carrying a brown bag of groceries.

“Hey, Tommo,” Stan says, as Louis pops up from the sofa and tugs self consciously at his top.  “Found this bloke camped outside our door. Have you been in here the entire time? Some host you are.”

“I was taking a shower for a bit,” Louis says.  “Sorry you had to wait out there, Harry.”

Harry shrugs, grinning.  “That’s alright. You look great, Lou.”

Louis casts a glance at Stan to find him smirking back at him.  He fidgets with his fringe. “You’d never guess what a shower to yourself’ll do to a person,” he jokes.

“I can’t wait, honestly,” Harry sighs.  Then his eyes widen. “Um, not that I’d have to do that here.  There’s a gym not too far away I’m sure I could sneak into.”

“Stop,” Louis insists.  “You’re allowed to use the shower.  Right, Stan?”

“Course,” Stan says, not even as reluctantly as Louis’d expected.  He keeps looking back and forth from Louis to Harry like he thinks he knows something.  Louis wants to kick him. “Harry bought us groceries.”

“Just a few things,” Harry says hurriedly. “Thought I could make you supper tonight as a thank you.”

“Oh,” Louis says.  “Well, I usually go to my mum’s in the evenings.”

Harry’s face falls minutely, but he covers it up with a smile.  “That’s fine. It can wait til some other time.”

“No, no,” Louis says hurriedly.  “They can do without me for one night.  Lottie’s got to pull her weight sometime.”  Also, last night Stan had laid down some ground rules about Harry’s stay, and rule number one was that Harry never be left alone in his flat.  He’d gone a bit mental when he’d learned the reason for Harry’s arrest, and promptly moved his Xbox into his locked bedroom.

Harry frowns.  “If you’re sure.  I don’t want to keep you from your family.  I know how important they are to you.”

Stan is practically gaping at him, but Louis ignores him, walking past him to take the brown paper bag from Harry’s arms.

“Mates are important too, yeah?  What’re you cooking us?”

Harry brightens, setting his duffel bag down so he has his hands free to help unload the groceries.  “I thought stew? There was a sale on the meat, and I thought the leftovers would keep for a while.”

“Stew sounds lovely,” Louis says agreeably.  The only thing he can manage is a pot of noodles, and his mum’s not much better.

“Well, I’m starved,” Stan announces.

Harry claps his hands together, grinning.  “I’ll get started then.”

Stan leaves them to get changed out of his work clothes, but not before shooting Louis an obvious eyebrow wiggle.  Louis flushes and glances Harry’s way, but he’s busy digging through the cupboards for a pot.

“Lou, could you fetch me a cutting knife, and a peeler if you’ve got one?” Harry asks him.  His t-shirt rides up in the back as he digs through the lower cupboard, revealing a bit of his pale hips and the elastic of his ratty underpants.  Louis turns abruptly and busies himself with completing the task asked of him, but he only manages to find the knife.

“I’m not very good in the kitchen,” he admits as he hands over the knife he’s found.  Harry seems less than impressed with his selection.

“I know,” Harry says, giving him a consoling pat on the shoulder.  “You’ve told me. Why don’t you sit at the island and keep me company instead?”

Louis does as he’s asked, sitting silently for several minutes whilst Harry moves about Stan’s kitchen as if he owns the place.

“How’ve you been since I saw you last?” Harry asks.  “We didn’t really get a chance to talk on the phone last night.”

“You coulda rung before then,” Louis remarks.

Harry ducks his head, effectively hiding his eyes behind his curls.  It’s gotten so much longer in a month’s time. “Yeah, I dunno. I sort of convinced myself that maybe I’d made up how close we were, once you left?  I didn’t want to impose or anything.”

Louis has had nearly those exact thoughts since his release.  “And yet you called to see if you could stay with me,” he reminds Harry teasingly.

Harry meets Louis’s eyes.  “Guess I just missed you.”

It’s the frank sort of talking that Harry’s always done, but it still makes Louis’s tummy flutter a bit, hearing the words.

“Aww, Hazza, I missed you too,” he croons obnoxiously, because humor is always his fallback when he’s caught emotionally off guard.  “Your mates in Manchester aren’t expecting you back?”

Harry had spoken about a few friends from home who’d let him move from sofa to sofa over the years, but had confided in Louis that none of them were exceptionally close mates.

Harry shakes his head.  “They’re well sick of me, I think.”

Louis frowns.  “I doubt that very much.  Besides, you’ve been gone quite a while now, love.  Surely they’ll be wondering what’s become of you.”

Harry purses his lips, chopping the carrots with a bit more force that necessary.  “Right, well, I don’t have to stay here long, then. I don’t mean to be a bother.”

Louis scoffs.  “You’re not. Not anymore than I am, anyway.  You’re at least contributing a meal. All I contribute is the occasional joint.  Oh, and a pizza last week.”

Harry says nothing, just adds the finely chopped carrots to the pot.  

Louis tries again.  “Harry, I wasn’t trying to make you go, I was just looking out for you.  Obviously I want you to stay as long as you need. You’re the fastest mate I’ve ever made, and much better looking than Stanley.”

 _That_ earns him a dimple, and another case of the tummy flutters.  Harry opens his mouth to say something else, a twinkle in his eye, but he’s interrupted by Stan rejoining them.

Stan stops at the kitchen island, scratching his balls.  “What? Did I interrupt something?”

An hour later, they’re all sat in the lounge together watching television with full bellies.

“That was so good,” Stan praises after an impressive belch.  “You can cook me supper anytime.”

Harry beams proudly.  “Thanks. Think I’ll grab a glass of water.  Want anything, Lou?” Harry asks, placing a hand on Louis’s knee.

The back of Louis’s neck goes hot.  “No, erm, I’m good.”

Harry gives him a little pat, then stands, disappearing into the kitchen.

Stan shoots him a knowing look from his spot on the recliner.  “Thought you said you didn’t get any in there.”

Louis reaches across the sofa to punch him in the arm as Stan guffaws.  He’s still hunched over, laughing heartily, when Harry returns with two glasses in his hands.

“What’s so funny?” he wonders, grinning despite not knowing the joke.

“Nothing,” Louis says quickly.  “Stan’s just an idiot. Laughs at everything.”

“Or maybe you’re just especially funny,” Harry praises as he sits back down next to Louis, quite a bit closer than before.  He sets the water Louis’s didn’t ask for down in front of him on the coffee table.

Stan keeps laughing.

They spend the next few hours watching telly together until Stan goes to bed, most likely to play Xbox in his room, as he’s usually up until at least one in the morning playing on most days.  He doesn’t say anything about where Harry’s supposed to sleep, so Louis offers him the sofa.

“Where do you sleep?” Harry wonders, eyeing the part of the lounge that’s sectioned off by bedsheets.

“You’ve found it,” Louis tells him.  Harry takes that as invitation to walk over and pull back the sheet.  There’s only just enough room for the mattress and some personal effects in the small space.  Louis’s got clothes stacked up high in an open suitcase, and odds and ends such as pictures, cologne, and lotion on the end table he’d pilfered from Stan’s lounge.  There’s an Arctic Monkeys poster tacked onto the wall above the mattress.

“Are those fairy lights?” Harry points to the string of lights clumsily wrapped round the legs of the end table.

“Yeah,” Louis says.  “My sister gave ‘em to me.  Said my shoebox needed a woman’s touch, or summat.”

Harry bends to plug them in. Their shadows suddenly loom on the curtain behind them.

“Proper romantic,” Harry comments, grinning cheekily.  He flops down onto Louis’s mattress. Louis suddenly desperately wishes he’d washed his sheets sometime in the last week or two.  Or ever. “So this is where the magic happens.”

Louis groans, even as his groin tingles a bit at the innuendo.  “You did not just say that.”

Harry grins and pats the small space beside him.  Louis hesitates, then lowers himself down til they’re on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, in Louis’s single bed.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Harry says, after several seconds of comfortable silence.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis says back.  “Stay as long as you like.”

Harry grins at the ceiling.  “I was thinking I’d try to get a job, so I can pay you guys back for helping me out.  I’m actually easily employable. Not for high paying jobs, but. People say I have a trusting face.”

Louis has missed the low, slow cadence of Harry’s voice.  “Really? People say the opposite about me.”

Harry snorts, then goes serious again.  “There’s a bakery a few blocks from here that had a ‘Now Hiring’ sign in the window.  I thought I’d try there first, since I’ve worked at one before. I can bring you guys baked goods home and contribute a bit to the bills until I can afford a room somewhere.”

Louis turns onto his side for a bit more room, and Harry mirrors him.  Their faces are mere inches apart, and gooseflesh breaks out over Louis’s skin.

“Well,” Louis says, very conscious of his stew-breath.  “I can’t cadge off Stan forever. I’m making decent money at my job, and I’ve got things coming in the side, too.  We could– I mean... we could maybe get a place together. You and me.”

Harry stares at him, mouth agape.  “You’d do that?”

Louis shrugs.  “Yeah, why not?  Long as my mum and sisters are looked after.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says seriously.  “I really want to meet them. Is that weird?”

“Bout as weird as any of this, I reckon,” Louis says with a chuckle.  Everything about his relationship with Harry has been a whirlwind. Now he’s gone and offered to get a flat with an almost-stranger, and all because of a bloody dimple.

Harry raises his hand and sets it down on Louis’s hip.  His shirt has ridden up with all the shifting, so Harry’s thumb is definitely touching skin.  He moves it back and forth, and Louis’s breath hitches.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Harry says, for the dozenth time.  This version is laced with something different though. Louis can feel it in the electricity between their bodies, and can see it in the way Harry’s looking at him right now.

Harry kisses him.  It’s gentle, and soft, and a bit wet, and Louis wants more the moment he pulls away.  Louis meets him halfway the second time, and their tongues meeting sends tiny fireworks down his body.

The snog quickly turns heated.  They knock knees as they press closer together.  Louis finds his fingers tangled in Harry’s hair as Harry’s hands creep downward onto the swell of his bum.

Louis inwardly praises his excellent self control as he pulls away minutes later, lips raw and cock thick.  Harry’s hands stop desperately squeezing his arse, but he doesn’t remove them.

“What?” Harry rasps.  “D’you wanna stop?”

“No,” Louis says honestly.  “I just wanna like, make sure you’re doing this cuz you want to.”

Harry stares at him.  “Lou, I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I met you.”  He tries to move in for another kiss, tongue already poking out of his mouth, but Louis reels back, stopping him.  It feels good to have confirmation of what he suspected, that they’re both attracted to one another, but he’s still got some reservations.

“But you don’t owe me anything, is all I’m saying,” Louis persists.  He won’t accept payment in the form of sexual favors.

Harry shakes his head, frowning.  “I do, though. I owe you a lot, for taking me in like this.”

Louis stiffens, and his heart sinks into his stomach.  “Harry–“

“That’s what the stew was for,” Harry ploughs on.  “Sorry, do you not– I thought you liked me like that.”

“I do.  Obviously.”

Harry frowns at him.  “So what’s the problem?”

Louis sighs.  “Even if I kicked you out tomorrow, you’d still want to be with me tonight?”

Harry pulls back, studying Louis’s face.  “Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “If you’re gonna kick me out anyway I’ll definitely take the sex. Least it’d give me something good to remember you by.  Unless you’d kick me out _because_ of the sex, in which case just– ignore my boner... and all future boners.”

“Future boners?” Louis repeats, unable to help the slow smile that’s spreading over his face.

“Yeah,” Harry says, grinning too.  “Because like, if I’m staying here, and you’re around, looking the way you look… things might happen.”

“I am very good looking,” Louis agrees, tossing his head.

Harry giggles, dipping his head down for another kiss.  Louis lets the snog go on a little too long, until they’re panting when they pull away.  Harry wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Louis considers Harry, who’s staring across the thin strip of mattress with eager eyes.  He knows he should be more careful, but it’s difficult with Harry right here in front of him, earnest, and beautiful, and kind, and fit.  Louis tells himself that there’s a chance this’ll work out for the best– that he’ll have someone in his life just for him, no strings attached, at least for a little while.  It feels good, and not just in the way that Harry’s cock feels good pressed up against him.

“You’re a really good person, you know that?” Harry asks softly, cutting into Louis’s thoughts.

Louis snorts.  “I con people out of their money for a living.  I’m not good.”

“No, you are,” Harry insists.  “You look after your mum and sisters–”

“They’re my family,” Louis counters.  “Of course I look after them.”

“Not everyone’s family gives a shit about one another,” Harry reminds him, not unkindly.  “Besides, you looked after me in prison.”

“I’d hardly call it looking after.  We were friends.”

Harry shakes his head, endeared.  “You don’t even realize you do it, I don’t think.“

Louis’s dick has flagged by now, and the tips of his ears have gone hot.  “You can’t have very high standards, then.”

Harry rolls his eyes.  “Shut up and take the compliment, Lou.  People must not tell you how great you are often, or you wouldn’t respond like this.”  Louis opens his mouth to retort, but Harry stops him with a hand to his lips. “And don’t tell me I’ve got some distorted view.  I’m a good judge of character.”

Louis licks the palm still covering his mouth.  It doesn’t disgust Harry like it would Stan or his sisters.  Instead, Harry’s eyes go dark again, as he focuses back on Louis’s mouth.

Louis relents.  He’s only human, after all, and too trusting for his own good sometimes, even when he knows better.  Must get it from his mum.

He pushes Harry onto his back, then lies on top of him, so they’re pressed together from chests to feet.  He captures Harry’s lips into another wet kiss.

Harry moans eagerly as one hand struggles to push under the waistband of Louis’s trousers.  He’s a little clumsy, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm, which Louis can definitely appreciate.

He ignores the tiny little alarm bells buried behind the lust in the back of his brain, insisting that he protect himself from future heartbreak and hardship.  In this moment, Louis has never felt more wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case)!


	3. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is un-beta'd! All mistakes are my own!

HARRY

GINGER'S BAKERY, LONDON

4 SEPTEMBER, 2018

The exterior lights flicker off outside the bakery as Harry turns the lock and flips the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’.

“D’you want to count, or shall I?” Marjorie asks, as she dims the interior lights so they’re bright enough that they can see what they’re doing, but low enough so passersby don’t try the door.

“You can do it,” Harry calls back.  “I’ll get the mop and bucket.”

“After you box up the leftovers, or before?” Marjorie teases, moving to the register to close it down.  

Harry grins sheepishly.  They typically bring all the pastries left over at the end of the day to the shelter a few blocks away. On Mondays, however, Harry loads everything into one of their fancy cake boxes to bring with him to the prison.  It’s been a tradition for nearly five months now. His coworkers rib him gently for it, but don’t give him any real trouble. They’ve gotten over the shock of Louis’s arrest by now. These days they’re mostly just curious.  Marjorie’s relatively new, but she’s already begun with the teasing and questioning. Harry doesn’t mind, really. It doesn’t embarrass him. Sometimes it’s nice, even, to speak openly about everything,

“How much longer has he got?” she asks, balancing the money drawer on her hip as she watches Harry come round the counter and begin to put together a collapsible box.

“Well, he was sentenced to two years, but he’ll be out sooner than that.  I can’t be sure when exactly. Sometimes they don’t give you much notice.”  

“Wow,” Marjorie says lowly.  “Two years? That’s such a long time.  How can you possibly manage?”

“Well, it’s more difficult now that you’ve pointed it out,” Harry teases dryly.

Marjorie covers her mouth in mortification.  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says, stacking the blueberry scones carefully into one corner of the box.  He _may_ have ordered an extra batch be made in the afternoon, and he _may_ have personally drizzled a bit of extra icing on the ones toward the front of the case.  Quincy, the officer who oversees visitation, has quite the sweet tooth, and has been willing to look the other way whilst Harry holds Louis’s hand under the table, so long as he’s kept well fed.  “We’ve done it before.”

Harry’d served thirty days two years ago, after being arrested for a shouting match he’d had with a man outside of a casino, when the bloke had made derogatory remarks about Louis.  He’d deserved a kick in the teeth, but Harry’d managed to restrain himself and only destroyed a billboard instead. The police were not nearly as impressed.

Marjorie nods solemnly, as though she understands.  Probably assuming it was Louis who’d done time previously, and not Harry.  Harry doesn’t bother to educate her. It took long enough to convince his boss to allow him to be responsible for opening and closing the bakery– he doesn’t need anyone else questioning his motives.  His boss is an old lady, who was desperate for the help when Harry’d applied, just after his time served. If it hadn’t been for that fact, along with Harry’s prior experience both in his hometown and for the two years he’d lived with Louis in Doncaster, Harry’s certain he’d never have gotten the job at all.  (Employment equality apparently does not apply to those who have a criminal history, Harry has discovered over the years.)

”What was his crime, again?” she asks, forehead puckering.  “Samantha told me, but I forgot.”

Harry puts the two leftover macaroons in the box, even though he’s always left with them at the end of his visits.  Nobody likes macaroons.  ”Money laundering.”

”Oh,” Marjorie says.  “Er... what’s that again?”

The pumpkin bread goes next.  It’s a favorite of Louis’s.  “He misfiled some paperwork at tax time.”

He was _actually_ caught gambling on a high stakes match, using money he made through illegal gambling, but Harry avoids going into detail as much as possible when it comes to this particular subject.  Louis’s record is publicly available, so a person could snoop further if they so choose.  They’re going to have to come up with a game plan in the future, now that Louis’s income will be closely watched.  They’ve considered opening a small business to conceal some of the winnings, but things are up in the air for the time being, given the circumstances.

“Oh,” Marjorie says again.  She doesn’t get it, which is perfectly fine with Harry.  “How often do you get to speak to him?”

“Well, I visit every Tuesday, of course,” Harry says.  “And we speak on the phone just about nightly. And there’s email, if we don’t get to do that.”  Louis’s a notoriously poor pen pal, but their phone conversations aren’t nearly long or frequent enough, so Harry often sends a midday email, updating Louis on the mundane things in life he hasn’t got the time for via phone. Just last night, in fact, he’d waited for a call that never came.  It happens sometimes. There’s no reason to be concerned.

Marjorie wrinkles her nose.  “Prisoners have email? What’s the point of being incarcerated if you’ve got just as many luxuries as the rest of us?”

Harry purses his lips, swallowing down his angry retort.  “We’d best get started so we don’t get caught in the alarms,” he advises instead.

Marjorie grimaces and hurries into the back room with the money drawer, none the wiser to Harry’s annoyance.

Twenty minutes later, Harry’s put the mop and bucket away and the front counter is sparkling and free of fingerprints.  He hangs his apron on the hook in the entrance of the kitchen just as Marjorie emerges from the office.

“All set,” she says.  She smiles as Harry grabs his box of pastries from the counter on their way to the door.  “I’m surprised they let you bring food in at all.”

“Prison guards are quite easily manipulable,” he tells her sagely.

Marjorie giggles.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry waves goodbye to Marjorie once she’s safely in her vehicle, then walks the short eight blocks home with his box of goodies carefully tucked under his arm.

He’s been picking up extra shifts at the bakery, sometimes even going in a five in the morning and staying until close.  He’s always the one everyone calls should they need their shift covered, because he hasn’t ever got anything else going on.  He prefers to stay busy. When he’s not working he goes out with his mates, to drink away the loneliness. His friends are probably sick of him by now, actually.  Harry’s always been the type to make shallow friendships easily, but he prefers to isolate himself with Louis whenever possible. It’s been a bit of a whiplash for his mates to go from frequently ignored texts, to constant phone calls asking to hang out.

He hates returning home to an empty, silent flat.  Louis is constantly making noise, in some way, when he’s home.  He’s always either got music playing, or the football match on, or he’s talking Harry’s ear off about his day as soon as Harry’s through the door.  Now, when Harry lets himself in, he’s greeted by the gentle hum of the refrigerator and nothing else.

He’d been so proud of their flat, when they’d moved in four years ago.  It was the first place that was truly theirs, without any additional flatmates.  The move from Doncaster, although necessary for Louis’s career and aspirations, had been particularly difficult for him, and Harry had worked hard to incorporate homey touches into their new living space, complete with plenty of family photographs, and fairy lights strung around the headboard in their bedroom– to replicate their first living arrangements with Stan.

He’s still proud of it now, he thinks, as he sets the pastry box down in the kitchen.  They can afford bigger and better than this now– even with sending money home to Louis's mum monthly– and they’ve considered moving to a nicer neighborhood, but neither of them feel ready to leave yet.  It’s tiny, but cozy, with it’s mismatched furniture in all sort of patterns, and collages of photos on the wall. He’s managed to keep it tidy, too, which is only possible because Louis is away.  That’s one tiny silver lining.

The nice thing about working such long hours is that he’s tired enough at night to not spend too much time tossing and turning and thinking about things he can’t change.  He takes a quick shower, then flops down into bed, making sure that his alarm is set in time to make the train for his visit tomorrow.

//

Harry winces, like he does every time, as his box of pastries runs through the x-ray machine.  There’s got to be some health hazard for consuming food that’s been through light radiation.

“Hello,” he says to the man who’s patting him down.

“Legs apart,” he grunts back.

“Has anyone ever told you you’d have a smashing career in proctology?” Harry deadpans as his bollocks get a hefty fondling.  The security officer is unamused. Harry’ll have to remember to tell Louis that one. No one loves a good dick joke quite like Louis Tomlinson.

He’s half a dozen muffins lighter by the time he finally makes it to the visitation room.

“Table five,” Quincy tells him, exchanging a fist bump for a scone as Harry passes by him.  “Ooh, extra icing this time.”

“Only for you,” Harry singsongs, taking a seat in the hard plastic chair, facing the heavy glass window so he can see when Louis’s led out into the visitor’s room.  It sends butterflies into his stomach and a knife into his chest every time.

Ten minutes later, his leg won’t stop its incessant shaking, and his heart is in his throat.  Every other inmate has been led into the room now except Louis.

Harry manages to wait a full minute longer before leaving his seat and approaching Quincy.

“Louis’s not here yet.”

Quincy blinks at him.  “Yeah, I see that.”

Harry stares at him.  “Could you see what’s going on, please?  He didn’t ring last night, and now I’m starting to worry.”

Quincy’s gaze slides past Harry and onto the bakery box.  “Have you got anything left in there?”

Harry closes his eyes briefly and inhales through his nose, focusing on the consequences of smashing Quincy with a chair, like he’d been taught in his Anger Management class.

“Yeah, anything you want, mate,” he says, trying to keep his tone agreeable.  He’s entirely at the mercy of this man. Best to stay on his good side. “I just want to know if Louis’s alright.”

Quincy hesitates, then nods, turning to pick up the phone on the wall next to him.  “Yeah, we’ve got a visitor here for inmate, erm…”

“2747,” Harry supplies.

“2747,” Quincy repeats into the receiver.  “Tomlinson, yeah.” There’s a pause, then Quincy nods.  “Okay, yeah. Thanks, mate.” He hangs up the phone, then turns back to Harry.  “He’s not coming.”

“Why not?” Harry demands. “Is he ill?  Is he in solitary? What’s going on?”

“Don’t know,” Quincy says.  “He said he wasn’t coming.”

“Well, could you ask why?”

Quincy’s bored expression turns disgruntled.  “No.”

Harry huffs.  “Quincy, I only get to see him once a week.  Please.”

“And Mrs. Borud over there only makes it down once a month,” Quincy says, gesturing to an older lady seated at a table toward the back of the room.  “Everyone’s got a sob story, mate.”

Harry’s forced to leave the prison hours earlier than usual, without having felt the warmth of Louis’s skin under his hands, or heard his voice in person.  He tries not to let himself spiral into worst case scenario territory. Instead, he composes an email containing everything he would have said at their visit.  He tries not to make it too soppy, knowing that it’s screened before Louis gets a chance to read it.

He keeps his mobile in hand all night, eagerly awaiting Louis’s call.  But the usual time comes and goes, and Harry’s phone stays silent.

Four days later, and Harry’s feeling desperate, and terribly worried.  He’s had no calls, and no emails. He phones the prison, but because he isn’t of relation they’re not able to confirm Louis’s status.

Harry’s been avoiding phoning Louis’s mum, because he doesn’t want to unnecessarily worry her.  But at this point, he’s not sure it’s completely unnecessary. It’s not as though Louis would be so busy that phoning would slip his mind.  It’s far more likely that he’s ill enough to be unable to, or in solitary confinement for some infraction.

“Hi, Harry,” Louis’s mum says, when she’s picked up.  She sounds apprehensive, as if she’d been waiting for his call.

“Have you spoken with Lou recently?” Harry asks quickly, panic rising with every passing moment.

“Yes,” she says hesitantly.  “And he’s asked me not to speak with you anymore, darling, I’m sorry.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry.  “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, and it sounds as though she’s crying. “It’s for your own good, sweetheart.”

“What?” Harry repeats, head suddenly gone foggy.  He sits back hard against the kitchen chair he’s sat at.  “What… what are you saying?”

“You need to move on, Harry.  He’s the reason you’re in the mess you’re in.  You deserve better than that.”

Harry gasps in shock.  “How could you say that?”  She doesn’t respond, just sniffles into the phone.  “Is Louis seriously breaking up with me through his mum?” Harry demands.  Hot, angry tears pool in his eyes, and he doesn’t even bother to quell them.  Six years they’ve been together, through relocations and incarcerations, money woes and family drama–  and they’ve always relied on nothing but love for each other to get by.

Louis’s family is Harry’s family.  

“Please,” Harry begs pitifully.  “You’re the only mum I’ve got.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”  She’s crying just as hard as he is now, and it only makes everything worse, knowing that she’s also in pain.  “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

And then she’s gone.

He sits there, in the hard wooden kitchen chair of the flat that only moments ago had felt like his safe space, until he can no longer feel his legs.  The placemat where he’d rested his head is soaked through with tears and snot.

As he gingerly makes his way through the flat on dead legs, he catches sight of his favorite photo of himself and Louis, blown up large above the sofa.  They’re both laughing in it, faces pressed close together as they embrace.

Harry’s despair makes way for anger.

 _'How fucking could you?’_ he writes in an email. _‘You make your mum do your fucking dirty work?  We’ve been together six years and this is how you repay me, by going ghost on me whilst I wait for you to get out of prison?’_

It somehow feels both better and worse to type all that out, but he knows he can’t send it.  He tries again after a few deep breaths, fingers shaking as he types.

_‘I’ve just got off the phone with your mum because I was worried about you.  She says you asked her not to speak to me anymore. She seems to think you’ve broken up with me but I know you wouldn’t be such a coward about it.  You owe me an explanation.’_

He hits send as his heart beats wildly in his chest, then he goes to the freezer for the bottle of vodka to drown his sorrows.

The ringing of his mobile wakes him up the next day.  He’d had the forethought to call in sick to work before he’d gotten too pissed last night, which he’s thankful for when he finds that it’s already midday.  His adrenaline pumps into overdrive when he sees the number on the screen.

Harry’s hand shakes as he accepts the call.

“Hello?” he says.

“Harry,” Louis says on the other line.  He sounds solemn, and stilted.

“Oh, so you do get my emails,” Harry snarks.

“Harry, look,” Louis begins, and those two words confirm it for Harry, that Louis’s mum had been telling the truth when she’d said Louis was done with him.  He can hear it in Louis’s voice.

“Your mum, Louis?  Really?” Harry demands.  “That’s who you got to tell your boyfriend of _six_ years that we were through?”

“She shouldn’t have told you,” Louis says regretfully.  “I was just stalling to figure out a way to say it meself.”

“I spent the day coming up there on Tuesday,” Harry accuses.  “You knew you were going to do it then, and you still made me waste my time?”

“I couldn’t do it in person,” Louis says, voice strained. “It would’ve been too difficult.”

“So,” Harry begins, voice thick with tears, “So, what sort of revelation could you have come to while fucking locked up in prison, that would lead you to decide you wanted to be done with us?  Just like that? Did you find someone who could fuck you better or summat?”

Louis’s silence is telling.

“Oh my God,” Harry wails.  “Just last week you let me wank to the sound of your voice–”

“Harry,” Louis warns sharply.

“–and now you’re telling me you’ve been cheating on me the entire time?”

“...There is someone else,” Louis admits, pained, and Harry lets out a choked sob.  “Look, you can keep the flat. I won’t be coming back there when I get out.”

“I don’t want the fucking flat,” Harry cries.  “I want you!”

“There’s money in the safe you can use to pay off the rent for the rest of the year,” Louis continues, ignoring Harry’s outburst.

“I thought you were hurt, or in trouble!” Harry shouts.  “How could you do this to me? You’re the love of my fucking life, Lou!”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says woodenly.  “It’s better this way.”

Harry has nothing left to say.  He turns his head and sobs into his pillow.  Louis is silent on the other line. They stay like that, until the call is disconnected less than a minute later.

He’s never felt such heartbreak as he does in the weeks that follow, not even when his own mother looked him in the face and told him to get out of her house.  Louis’s been his entire world since the moment they met, and Harry is despondent at the loss.

He asks himself over and over again how this could have happened, what he did wrong, how long Louis had felt this way?  He tortures himself constantly with thoughts about the other person Louis’s been seeing. Do they kiss one another good morning?  Fuck one another in their prison beds? Laugh about poor, lovesick Harry waiting at home?

He never has any answers for himself.  His mates don’t either, but they place the blame solely on Louis’s shoulders, as mates do.

“Honestly, you’re well shot of him,” Finn tells him one night at the pub.  “He always kept you to himself, innit? Monopolized you away from the rest of us.  That’s a sign of abuse, that.”

“That’s not what it was like,” Harry slurs.  “We just loved being with one another. What’s the point of going out if I can stay home and be with him?”

Finn shakes his head.  “Nah, man, I like to get out of the house when I can.  She’s always on me for something or other.”

“You are straight,” Harry points out.  “You’re essentially destined to be miserable.”

Finn considers this, then shrugs, not disagreeing.  “You need to get back out there,” he advises. “Have a rebound.  It’s not normal to stay with the same person since you were a teenager.  How d’you know the sex was even any good?” He holds out a hand when Harry opens his mouth to retort.  “That was not an invitation for details!”

“It was fucking amazing,” Harry says stubbornly.  “And I don’t want to be with anyone else. I only want him.”

Finn squeezes him on the shoulder in sympathy as Harry rests his head on the bar top.  “I know.”

Harry moans into his hands, swiping at the drunken tears threatening to fall.  “He doesn’t want me back.”

The first week after their conversation, he’d somehow got it in his head that if only he tried one more time to see Louis in person, then he could make everything alright again.  He’d packed his usual box of pastries that Monday night under the sympathetic eyes of Marjorie, then took the train to the prison like usual, only to be declined at reception. Louis had taken him off the approved visitors list.

Finn pats him.  “I know, H. I’m sorry.”

“I came on too strong, in the beginning,” Harry tells him.  “I know I did. I was trying not to freak him out, but I’m pretty sure I loved him from the second we met.  And he– fuck, he’d had such a shit lot in life that it took him so long to trust that I was all in for him. It was like... he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, like I’d leave him after I got what I wanted.”  Harry snorts ironically. “Turns out it went the other way round.”

“Look, Harry,” Finn says firmly.  “Splits happen. You’re not doing yourself any good by going over and over it every night.  You need an intervention, mate.”

Harry sniffles.  “I’m not stopping drinking.”

It’s Finn’s turn to snort.  “As if I’d be one to enforce that.  No, I was thinking more like getting you out of that flat.  It isn’t healthy to keep living with all those reminders every day.”

Harry nods.  It’s been on his to do list, sort of.  Every time he thinks very long about it, it starts up the tears again.  “Louis’s name is on the lease.”

“Then we’ll sublet it,” Finn says.  “Plenty of uni kids around. Maybe you’ll make a bit of extra cash, too.  You should pocket it all, too. It’s the least Louis deserves.”

Harry considers that.  It _would_ be nice to have a bit more money of his own, instead of relying primarily on Louis’s winnings for spending money.  

“And we’ll find you a boyfriend,” Finn continues, to which Harry sits up and glares.  “Alright, alright, maybe not a boyfriend, but at least a good time, yeah? When’s the last time you had a mouth around your cock?”

Harry groans.  “If I didn’t have whiskey dick right now, just talking about it would make me hard.”

Finn slaps the bar.  “It’s decided. I’m gonna help you find a new place.  And a hook-up!”

Harry only sighs.

//

Finn stays true to his word in the weeks that follow, emailing him sometimes multiple times a week with listings for flats, or adverts for flatmates.  He also helpfully sends the link to download Grindr. Harry dutifully looks at the flat pictures (and ignores the app suggestion), but there’s always something not quite right about Finn’s suggestions.  Too small, too expensive, much too expensive, too strange, too conservative. He’s got every excuse ready as to why a flat or person just isn’t the right fit, and if he’s honest with himself, whilst he’s lying in bed at night sobbing into what was formerly Louis’s pillow, he’s just not ready to say goodbye.  It’s been three months now, since he was dumped.  Some things are getting easier.  He counts things like not wanting to immediately curl up into a ball when he comes home, or managing an entire shift at the bakery without tearing up, as wins.

His shift starts at three today.  Winter has definitely arrived, with Christmas and Louis’s birthday only a few weeks away, so Harry bundles up for his walk to the bakery as tiny flurries fall from the sky, only to immediately melt when they touch the pavement.  The bakery is always busy around the Christmas season, which Harry is immensely grateful for.  He’s got no idea how he’ll handle the holidays without Louis in his life.  He’s already had invitations from a few mates to join them, but he hasn’t made any decisions yet.

“Hello, Harry,” Samantha calls, when the bell jingles to alert his presence.  The place smells deliciously of cinnamon and pumpkin bread.  There are nearly a dozen people seated at tables, and three more queued up at the counter.  “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been a madhouse. Would you mind popping back to take out the bread once you’re washed up?”

“Sure,” Harry says easily, sliding past the customers at the counter with a short smile, then heading into the back room to clock in, put on his apron and hairnet, and wash his hands.  He makes it just in time to the industrial bread oven as the timer dings.

“Oh, hi Harry,” Francesca says when he sidles up next to her at the decorating table after placing the bread safely in the cooling rack.  “Are you feeling artistic today? My flowers are all shit. Think I might still be hungover from last night.” She holds up a shaky hand.

“I’ll do my best,” Harry tells her, taking the piping bag from her hands.

“Thanks, babe.”  She gives him a quick once over.  “You’re looking better, Harry, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Harry smiles.  Every day is just a bit easier than the last.  “Thanks, Frankie.”

He’s through piping the flowers within twenty minutes, and he brings the cake out front to set into the display case to see that the rush has disappeared.  There are only three people seated in the dining area, and none waiting to purchase. Samantha and Francesca are idly chatting at the register as Samantha prepares to leave for the day.

“Oh, Harry,” she says to him.  “I forgot to mention it to you when you came in, but some bloke stopped by for you earlier.”

Harry pauses, then continues to place the cake on the display plate.  “Really?  One of my mates?”

Samantha shakes her head.  "Didn't really seem that way.  He was all business-like.  It seemed important."

Harry considers this, mind beginning to race.  "What time?"

“Around eleven,” Samantha says.  "He ordered a coffee to go, or something.  I can't remember the exact order."  

“What did he look like?” Harry demands.  Rationally, he knows he’s jumping to conclusions, but he’s never had a mate stop by his place of work before, and he certainly doesn't have any business-related connections.  Logically, there’s only one person it could be. “Brown hair? Blue eyes?”

Samantha frowns.  “I’m not sure.”

Harry deflates.  If it had been Louis, she’d have remembered those details.  He's too beautiful not to stick in a person's mind.

“But he asked when you’d be in today,” Samantha continues.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I told him three.”

The hope is back in a nanosecond.  “I’ve got to check my phone,” Harry says.  If it was one of his mates, they’d surely have rung or texted him about stopping by.  If it'd been the police, they would've left a card or simply tracked him down at his flat.  He rushes into the back room where he’d stashed his mobile in a locker, but there are no messages waiting for him.  He whirls around to question Samantha some more, and finds her right behind him. “Did he say anything else?” he demands.

She bites her lip.  “Erm, he asked how long your shift was.  I told him you were closing. I’m so sorry, Harry.  I shouldn’t have given him any information about you.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says quickly.  “Look, I know you were about to leave, but I’ve got to go.  It’s an emergency.”

He snatches his coat from the hook and is stumbling out the front door of the bakery not fifteen seconds later.  He runs the entire eight blocks home, grateful in this moment that he hadn’t let his workout routine fall apart too much whilst cleaning up the shattered remnants his broken heart.  He crashes into his building and doesn’t even bother waiting for the lift. He rushes up the four flights of stairs, and then hunches over, panting, at the top, when he’s got the front door of his flat in his sight.

He knows he’s being stupid, probably.  The bloke who’d asked about him could have been some perv from the bakery.  Harry’s had his fair share of those over the years. But something about this feels different, and he would hate himself forever if he lost the opportunity to see Louis again, even for a moment, even just to say goodbye.

He takes a deep breath before walking the short distance to the flat door.  He puts his key in the lock, but finds that it’s already unlatched. Blood pounds in his hears.

“Louis?” he calls loudly, slamming the door behind him.  There’s a muffled noise from the bedroom, and Harry flies down the hall.  He jams his toe painfully on the moulding when he crashes into the doorway, but he doesn’t even care, because Louis is standing there, in their bedroom, frozen in shock, and so, so beautiful.  His hair is damp and his cheeks are flushed, like he’s fresh out of the shower. He’s also thinner than he’s ever been– worryingly so, but his eyes are just as blue as they were when Harry last saw him.

“Oh my God,” Harry breathes.   “You’re here.”

Louis turns abruptly away to dig through the dresser.  “Only to get a few things.”

Harry tries not to let Louis's behavior crush him too terribly.  “How long have you been out?”

Louis stares at the clothing in front of him, arms hovering uncertainly.  He settles on two pairs of jeans and tosses them next a duffel bag on the bed. “Where’s my white jumper?”

“I burned it,” Harry says.  Louis turns to stare at him, mouth open in shock.  He hasn’t burned it, it’s just in the wash. He’s probably stretched it out by now, with how much he’s worn it since Louis went away.  “How long have you been out?” he repeats.

Louis shrugs, moving to his bedside table.  “Not long.”

“Where are you staying?” Harry asks.  “Who are you staying with?”

Louis sighs.  “Harry, please.”

“What?” Harry demands loudly.  “Do you truly think you don’t owe me a single explanation, Lou?”

“It’s better this way,” Louis says cryptically.  “I shouldn’t have come here.” He picks up his jeans and shoves them into his near-full bag, then picks it up and heads for the door.  He’s doing that face he makes when he’s desperately trying not to cry. Stubbornly, Harry doesn’t move from the doorway. Louis refuses to make eye contact, lower lip trembling.  “Let me pass.”

“When did you stop loving me?” Harry asks, not even bothering to wipe at his wet eyes.  “Just tell me that, at least.”

Louis rears back like he's been slapped. “I’ve never stopped loving you,” he cries, bursting into tears.  “I’m doing this to protect you!”

“Protect me?” Harry spits.  “I knew what I was getting into, Louis.  We met in fucking prison!”

Louis just shakes his head, and darts forward to shove past Harry.  Harry grabs desperately for him, and catches the strap of the duffel bag.

“Let go,” Louis shrieks, tugging on the other strap.

Harry digs his heels in and yanks.  Louis careens into him with the force of his pull, and they go down hard.  The bag hits Harry squarely in the chest, and he feels like he was hit with a brick.

“Fuck, what’s in here?” he wheezes.

“Nothing,” Louis says sharply, sitting up quickly.  He’s wincing and holding his elbow, but he also looks guarded enough for Harry to be suspicious.  He scrambles to his knees, wrenches open the zipper, and dumps the contents of the bag onto the floor.

The two pairs of jeans Louis had packed fall out first, followed by Harry’s lilac jumper, his favorite vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, and his Tom Ford cologne, the latter of which was a pricy Christmas gift from Louis last year.  Three framed photographs have also clattered to the floor. Thankfully, the clothing softened their fall.

Harry’s ears ring and his body thrums with adrenaline as he collects the photographs.  In one of them, his own face grins up at him. It was taken during his bandana phase, during a summer of unusually sunny weather.  It’s always been one of Louis’s favorite photos, even though Harry thinks he looks like an American frat boy. The second is of Louis’s family, taken at Easter just before Louis went to prison.  The final photograph is a blown up selfie of Louis and Harry grinning through a kiss.

Dumbfounded, Harry looks up.  Louis stares stubbornly at the ground, jaw tight, as tears trail down his cheeks.

“Lou… why?” Harry asks, at a loss.  He feels raw, like he’s been spit up and chewed out.  “You said– you said you were done with me, and now you’re taking my clothes, and our pictures?”  

Louis doesn’t respond, just shakes his head, closing his eyes tight in an attempt to hold back the tears.

Harry can’t stand it.  He reaches out, gripping Louis’s arm tight with the expectation of being thrown off, but Louis only slumps further in on himself.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” Harry begs.  “Louis, I love you. I don’t care what you did, I just want to make it work.  Please.” He leans down, resting his forehead on Louis’s thigh, wetting the soft fabric of Louis’s joggers with his tears. “Please, Lou.”

Louis lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk.  He sighs shakily.

Harry starts, then melts, when he feels Louis’s hand card through his hair.  He’s sweating through his winter coat, but he won’t dare make a move to take it off, lest he scare Louis’s hands off his body.  It’s been so long since they’ve touched one another.

“I…” Louis starts.  He clears his throat, then tries again.  “I’ve been recruited.”

Harry sits up.  He doesn’t understand, but his heart thunders just the same at the sound of Louis’s voice.  “Recruited? For what?”

Louis covers his face with his hands.  “Dealing for John Bosco.”

Harry feels like he’s underwater.  It's difficult to breath, and think.  “The hotel owner?” Bosco had taken a shine to Louis last year, after he’d cleaned house at his blackjack table one night. He remembers Louis’s excitement the first time he’d been invited to play a high profile table.  He even went out and bought a Burberry suit to wear to the events. Harry loves looking at him in that suit.

Louis nods.

“Drugs?”  His voice has gone all high pitched with panic.  “You said no, right? Lou. You said no.”  He has to have said no. 

“They threatened you!” Louis cries.  “They knew your name, and where you worked.  They told me–” he cuts himself off, shuddering.

“This is why you dumped me,” Harry says.  “Isn’t it?”

Louis sniffs, and wipes his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.  “I’d rather you be heartbroken than fucking strung up in the streets.”

“There was never anyone else?” Harry asks.  He’s shaking. He wants to wrap Louis up and never let him go.

“Are you fucking listening to me?” Louis demands.  “I’m about to start dealing fucking cocaine for a living and you’re acting like it doesn't even matter!  I've ruined our lives, Harry!”

“We’ll figure it out,” Harry interrupts him, pulling Louis toward him by the waist.  “Just come here. I love you. Come here for a minute.”

Louis’s face crumples, and he clambers into Harry’s lap, burying his head immediately into Harry’s neck and inhaling deeply.  Harry dips his hands under the back of Louis’s hoodie to roam up the warm curve of Louis’s spine.

“I love you,” Harry tells him again, kissing Louis’s shoulder.  Louis lifts his head, and their lips meet for the first time in nine months.  

Louis tastes of toothpaste and tears when he opens his mouth for Harry’s tongue.  He tugs on Harry’s curls like he always has, and Harry squeezes his hips, then moves his hands up the front of Louis’s shirt, fingers tracing over his nipples.  Louis gasps into his mouth and grinds down.

They pull back to look at one another, panting, for the briefest of moments, before Louis’s yanking Harry’s coat off his shoulders, then pulling his own hoodie and undershirt over his head.  Harry pushes Louis gently off his lap, then struggles with the knot of his bakery apron, long enough to make Louis laugh wetly. Louis sits up on his knees and pulls out the knot whilst Harry’s hands wander to his bum.  When Harry’s finally freed of his apron and shirt, Louis tugs him down onto the floor.

“So skinny,” Harry murmurs, running a hand over Louis’s prominent collarbones.  Louis huffs, then guides Harry’s hand lower to cup his dick. They groan simultaneously.

“It’s been so long,” Louis moans.  “Get yours out.”

Harry does as he’s told, popping the button on his work trousers and pulling them along with his pants to his knees.  Louis pushes his joggers down far enough for his cock to pop out.

“Oh God,” Harry grits out, when Louis’s hand wraps around his dick.  He’s had nothing but his own hand for company for nine months, and has hardly been able to control his tears whilst he’s masturbated for the last four.  “I’m gonna come in like, two seconds.”

Louis only smirks, leaning in for a messy kiss as they pull one another off, lying on the ground in the hallway of their flat.  Harry comes first with a groan, eyes squeezed tight as he spills into Louis’s hand.  His own is wrapped uselessly around Louis’s cock. Louis alerts him of this as soon as his eyes clear of the stars by bucking up into Harry’s palm.

Harry moves quickly into action, pushing Louis flat onto his back, then straddling his legs and sucking his cock down.  Louis yelps at the sudden suction, and grips Harry’s hair with his clean hand.

“Yes,” he hisses, when Harry tugs his joggers below his balls and laps at them.  “Shit, I’m coming.”

Harry hurries to put his mouth back around Louis’s dick as it pulses with his release.  He tastes the exact same as he did before. He still makes the same noises when he comes.  Harry is so grateful he’s here.

He sits back on his haunches once he’s swallowed.  His back aches, but he doesn’t care. Louis is stretched out and panting on the floor in front of him, cheeks and chest flushed, and so fucking beautiful.  He’s also still got a handful of come. Harry snorts, reaching for the nearest article of clothing (his work shirt) to clean him off.

“Thanks,” Louis murmurs, eyes still closed.  His blissful expression has clouded over. Harry pokes him in the pec until he opens his eyes.

“I love you,” Harry says, for probably the dozenth time since they first reunited.  

Louis sighs, sitting up and tugging at his joggers.  “I’ve got to go meet Bosco.”

“Okay,” Harry says, standing.  “I’ll come with you.”

Louis stops short, joggers around his thighs.  “No, you will _not_.”

“Yes, I am!” Harry insists.  “You’re not doing this alone, Lou.  Maybe we can talk him into some sort of deal, or something.”

Louis snorts, shaking his head sadly.  “You haven’t got a clue, love. I’ve got to do this, and if I’m lucky I’ll keep my head for a few years.  And you’re going to move on and find someone who isn’t covered in shit.”

Harry’s jaw drops along with his heart.  “Are you serious? You’re still trying to break up with me, after all that?”

Louis screams in frustration, lying back down and covering his face with his hands.  “Harry, if something happened to you because of me, I would literally kill myself.”

“And my life is fucking meaningless without you!”  Harry kneels, prying Louis’s hands from his face.  “Louis, I’d take a lifetime of ducking for cover with you over being with someone else.”

“I’ve fucked everything up,” Louis moans.  Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “I can’t even speak to my family anymore.”

Harry feels his lip wobbling, remembering his conversation with Louis’s mum.  “Are you certain you can’t?"

“I can’t put them in danger, can I?  You and them are the most important things to me.  I told my mum I was in trouble and that if anyone came around to act like she’d cut me off.”

Harry curls up next to him.  “I’m so sorry, Lou. How did she take it?”

“She cried.”  Louis wipes at his tears with his closed fists.  “But she seemed to understand. She’s had some boyfriends tied up in this sort of shit before.”

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’s middle.  “Well, I’m staying. I don’t care what you say, or what you do to throw me off.  I’ll follow you everywhere. I’ll go to John Bosco myself and offer to deal too.”

“No,” Louis says forcefully.  “No. You’re staying as far out of it as possible.  I never even want him to see your face.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees easily, before Louis can catch on to what he’s said and change his mind.  “I’ll do whatever you ask, Lou, except leave you. I’ll never leave you, no matter what you do to try to make me.”

Louis gazes at him sadly, reaching up to tuck a curl behind Harry’s ear.  It falls back just where it was, too short to stay put. “”If you ever change your mind, I’ll understand.”

“Never,” Harry promises, kissing him hard on the mouth.  “Now get up, and do what you need to do. I’m making fajitas tonight  You’ve got to get your curves back.”

Louis feigns offense.  “Excuse me, I’ve still got plenty to go around.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, peeking around at Louis’s bum.  “I’ll be the judge of that. Later tonight, after a full examination.”

Louis laughs weakly, and it’s the best sound Harry’s ever heard.  “I love you,” he tells Harry, pulling him into a tight hug.  “I missed you so much. All I could do every day was sit in there and wonder how you were holding up.”

Harry squeezes him just as tight.  “We’re together now. Everything will be fine.  You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case)!


	4. Zayn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe how long it's been.  
> This is unbeta'd!

 ZAYN

ACORN CASINO, LONDON

30 MAY, 2022

It's silly to say, but he hadn't become a detective because he felt a particular calling to get bad guys off the streets. In fact, he hadn't exactly been a choir boy in his younger years.  But he's always been introverted, and cerebral, as his dad likes to say.  He'd considered psychology, but he didn't think it would adequately fulfill his creative side.  His grandfather on his mum’s side, a former police officer, had suggested a career in forensics, and Zayn, young and indecisive and desperate for some approval from a man who'd never quite managed to hide his disdain for the other half of Zayn's heritage, threw himself into it.  He knew it would be difficult, but he hadn't anticipated it would be such lonely, often tedious, and always demanding work.  It's killer on his anxiety, too, which has only seemed to increase with age, and he's been considering getting out, going for something a bit more low key, especially now that his grandfather has passed away.

But when he'd been suggested for the Tomlinson case, something in him felt compelled to accept.  He's not entirely sure why.  It's the single most anxiety-inducing operation of his career. He’s already deeply regretting it as he pulls his leather jacket tighter around his chest self-consciously, staring straight ahead as he enters the casino.  He tells himself his nerves are in-character, because Zi would feel out of his element in a place like this as well.  He’s been practicing living as Zi for over a week now and is as ready to dive in as he’ll ever be. This is his first, and hopefully last, big long-term sting, and he’s got no backup nearby should something go wrong, and nothing on him but a flip phone, half a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.

He spots his target immediately.  Louis Tomlinson sticks out like a sore thumb as the youngest and best looking man in the room, seated at a near-empty blackjack table just to the right of the bar.  He’s got on a suede jacket and matching boots, with a white shirt and black skinnies. His hair looks like it’s been painstakingly ratted and mussed.  Zayn can appreciate a man who takes pride in the way he looks.

He’d been worried he’d have to find something to do (and waste more of his per diem money) if the table Tomlinson was sat at at were full, but he’s been given the perfect opportunity.   He’d researched how to gamble very minimally, because he wanted it to look believable that he was a total novice. If he’s honest, he’s looking forward to see Tomlinson in action. Aside from being John Bosco’s newest pet project, he’s also rumored to be an expert card counter, although he purportedly doesn’t have a single tell. Aside from his record winning streaks, that is.

Zayn strides up to the table, fidgeting with his hair along the way.

“Hi,” he says to the dealer, sitting in the vacant seat directly next to Tomlinson.  “Uh, deal me in, would you?”

The dealer looks him up and down.  “This is a hundred pound blind.”

“Right,” Zayn says.  “Yeah.” He sets a handful of chips down in front of him.  “I’ve got that, I think.”

“You’ve got 150, actually,” the dealer says, collecting the chips for the pot.  “Save the rest for the betting.”

Zayn nods.  “Alright.” He catches eyes with Tomlinson, and the other man send him a sharp nod and a closed-lipped smile.  “Wait,” he says, as the dealer begins. “This isn’t blackjack?”

The dealer sighs.  "Poker. Blackjack is that way.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, feeling suddenly hot with embarrassment.  “I’m better at poker.” That’s the truth, anyway. He used to play with his mates back in sixth form.  

The dealer smiles patronizingly.  “Well then, good luck.”

His cards aren’t terrible.  He’s got a Jack and an eight, both clubs.  There’s nothing for him in the flop, but he bets anyway.  Tomlinson and the other bloke both call. At the turn, Zayn takes a risk.

“Is, erm, a three of a kind better than a full house, or the other way round?”

The other three men stare at him.

“Full house is better, mate,” Tomlinson tells him, with a curious smirk.

“Oh,” Zayn says.

The other player scoffs.  “Who let this kid in here?”

“You’re the one at the hundred blind table, Bob,” Tomlinson tells him dryly.  “If you wanna play with the big boys, the thousand pounder’s got a seat open.”

Bob huffs, then takes a long pull of his whiskey, glaring at Zayn over the top of his glass.  

“Your action, mate,” Tomlinson says to Zayn, much more kindly, nodding towards his small pile of betting chips.

Zayn nods, leaving forward and adding two chips to the pot after a few seconds of feigned deliberation.

Tomlinson stares pensively at Zayn for several long seconds.  Finally, he sighs, turning to Bob. “I dunno about you, mate, but I certainly haven’t got three of a kind.”  He sets his cards face down on the table. “I fold.”

Zayn’s jaw drops in shock.  He was certain Tomlinson would see through his awful bluff and try to take him for all he was worth.  Across from him, Bob mirrors his expression, but thankfully, he’s looking at Tomlinson rather than himself.  Quickly, he schools his face back to something more neutral, maybe a bit hopeful.

“You serious, Louis?  This kid doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing!”

Zayn both resents and is flattered by the fact that this man keeps calling him a kid.  Thirty is approaching quickly– he can see it in the creases on his forehead when he looks in the mirror, and in the way his body takes days to recover after a wipeout on his skateboard.

“Which is why I’m taking him at his word,” Tomlinson says with a shrug.  “I’ve already folded. Up to you now.”

Bob narrows his eyes, considering.  He’s got probably twenty more years on Tomlinson, and likely a fair amount of experience, but it’s a testament to Tomlinson’s reputation and confident aura, that Bob ignores his instincts.  He tosses his cards down with a sigh. “I’ve got to get home anyway.”

Tomlinson claps him on the shoulder.  “And she’ll be pleased to know you only lost half as much as usual.”

Bob grumbles to himself as he collects his chips and leaves the table.  Tomlinson begins to do the same, though he throws a quick smile Zayn’s way.

“Good game, mate.”

Zayn blinks.  He’s not sure what just happened, but he wasn’t expecting that.

Zayn nearly loses sight of Tomlinson, once he's collected his chips, but finds him quickly enough, apparently taking his cue from Bob and preparing to leave for the evening.  He’s leaving the payout booth and heading for the exit, cigarette behind his ear. Zayn hurries to catch up to him, not even bothering to collect his own payout.  He doesn’t know what he was thinking, attempting to make contact with Tomlinson at a casino of all places. He’s lucky he hadn’t played any of the bigger tables, or Zayn would’ve been out some of his own savings based on a hunch.

“Oi, mate!” Zayn calls out to Tomlinson on the sidewalk.  Tomlinson is twenty paces ahead of him, neck bent to light his cigarette.  He raises his head and turns to glance behind him, smoke billowing around him from his first exhale.  Zayn jogs up to him. “Bum a light?”

Tomlinson nods, smiling easily.  “Sure, lad.” He pulls a bright green Bic from his jacket pocket and extends it out towards Zayn.

Zayn pats at the pockets of his leather jacket until he finds his near-empty pack of cigarettes.  They’re the cheap brand, because that’s all Zi can afford, but Zayn prefers Marlboro Reds. Just like Tomlinson is smoking.  He should’ve pretended he ran out of his own.

Tomlinson watches impassively as Zayn lights his own cigarette.

“Thanks,” Zayn says, passing the lighter back.  Tomlinson nods, pocketing it. “And thanks for letting me win, too.”

Tomlinson furrows his brows, but his mouth turns up a bit at the corner.  “Not sure what you mean, mate.”

“You knew I was bluffing.”

Tomlinson shrugs, paying close attention to the ash he’s tapping out onto the sidewalk.  “I couldn’t be sure, of course.”

“No,” Zayn insists.  “You saw right through me, and you folded, and you talked that other bloke into doing it too.  How come?”

Tomlinson shrugs again.  “There’s no fun in taking money from people who don’t deserve it.  You look like you could use it more than me.”

Zayn blinks in surprise.  He’d taken Tomlinson for a greedy man.   “Shit. Thanks, bro. I only came here tonight because I was desperate.  Guess you were my guardian angel.”

Tomlinson huffs, simultaneously embarrassed and disbelieving.  “I don’t know about that.”

“Maybe I’ll try my luck again,” Zayn says, feigning hopefulness.  “Seems like a nice place.” He knows that Tomlinson typically frequents much more high end places, but their surveillance team discovered he comes to the hole in the wall Acorn on the Saturday nights he doesn’t have an event, likely due to its proximity to his partner’s pub.  

Tomlinson nods.  “It’s alright, for a quick fix.  I’d be careful though. It’s being surveilled.”

Zayn can hardly keep his eyes from bugging out of his head.  So, Tomlinson’s spotted the surveillance. If he’s noticed it here, then he’s likely noticed it other places as well.

“Fuck,” Zayn says, with feeling.  “I’ve got priors. I can’t get in any more trouble.”

Tomlinson gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder.  “Just don’t show up high or cause a scene. There’s nothing illegal about casino gambling.  If anyone knows the difference, it’s me.”

“Why?” Zayn asks.  “You some sort of expert or summat?”

Tomlinson smirks, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.  “Something like that.”

Zayn tosses his cigarette down and puts it out under his shoe.  “Well, maybe it’ll rub off on me. I’ve got to go back in there.  If I don’t come up with five hundred by tomorrow I’ll be skinned.”

Tomlinson gazes at him speculatively over his final pull.

“It’s nothing,” Zayn says quickly.  “I just owe a bloke some money, and he doesn’t take too kindly to waiting, is all.”  He chuckles bemusedly. “I’m quite partial to my teeth.”

Tomlinson’s gaze flickers down to Zayn’s mouth.  “Mm, I can see why.” He tosses his stub into the street, then pats Zayn on the shoulder as he strides back toward the building.  “Well, let's get in there and raise you a bit of money. Tooth fairy gives out lumps of coal these days, I hear.”

Zayn doesn’t move.  “What? What d’you mean?”

Tomlinson walks backwards, grinning cheekily.  “Just what I said. You need the money, and I know how to get it.”

Zayn blinks.  He needs a moment to collect himself.  Tomlinson doesn’t wait for him. He hadn’t anticipated the evening turning out like this, but he knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Tomlinson had seemed interested in Zayn’s reasoning for needing the money. Maybe by the end of the night he can convince Tomlinson to let him sell for him.

Zayn can’t help but grin privately as he hustles back into the building after Tomlinson.

Two and a half hours later, he reemerges, his wallet stuffed to the brim with notes, high on adrenaline after the night he’s had.  He’s gone from poring over surveillance photos, to honest to God hanging out with his own target in a matter of hours.

“Fuck, I don’t know if I’ve ever carried this much money on me at once,” Zayn says.  “That was fucking epic.”

Tomlinson laughs bemusedly.  “You act like I’ve just taken you on a high speed chase, instead of been sat in a seat watching me play blackjack.”

Zayn scoffs.  “Well, of course it wouldn’t be exciting for you.  It wasn’t your money you were risking.” It’s a shame he’ll have to report it all the the NCA. He’d rather like a bit of a bonus for all he’ll be doing whilst undercover.

“That is true, “ Tomlinson concedes.  “If I hadn’t felt confident, I wouldn’t have done it, though.  I don’t take risks with other people’s money. I know how important it is.”

Zayn scoffs.  ‘Your jacket probably costs more than my month’s rent.”

Tomlinson’s face clouds over, just for a moment.  Zayn knows, of course, that he’d grown up extremely poor, and likely in part turned to gambling and dealing to help make ends meet.   Zayn often struggles with the moral conflict of going after people who feel they have no other choice but to do bad things to make ends meet.  

“Still,” Tomlinson says.  “I’ve been there. Just because I’m privileged now doesn’t mean I don’t remember where I came from, and help out people when I can.”

There’s another thing he’s said tonight that’s surprised Zayn.  When he’d accepted the undercover job and begun researching his target, he’d assumed Tomlinson would be like a younger John Bosco– ruthless and greedy.  In fact, Zayn’s having a hard time imagining Tomlinson as a drug pusher at all. He’s just a rich bloke with a gambling habit and an underlying layer of sadness.  In all honesty, he just seems desperate for a friend.

“Shit,” Tomlinson is saying.  “All this and I’ve not introduced meself.  I’m Louis.”

“Zi,” Zayn says, taking the offered hand.  Tomlinson smiles curiously, but he doesn’t inquire further.

“Well,” Tomlinson sighs, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.  “Best be going, then.”

Zayn nods, pulling out his wallet.  He’ll catch Tomlinson here another time, and hopefully make more headway then.  “How much of a cut do you want?”

“None,” Tomlinson says firmly, pushing Zayn’s hands down.  “I told you, you need it more than I do.”

“But it’s your work that won it,” Zayn argues.

“No.”  Tomlinson turns away, tucking his cigarette and lighter into his t-shirt to keep it from going out in the wind.  It’s a bit dangerous, Zayn thinks, but he can’t deny it looks fucking cool.

Zayn huffs.  “Well, at least let me buy you a cuppa, then.”

Louis considers briefly, then shrugs.  “Sure, why not?”

Zayn can’t help but grin.  “Sick.”

“I’ve got a car,” Tomlinson gestures to the sleek, black monstrosity idling at the curb.  Zayn had clocked it as Louis’s the first time they’d come out of the building, but feigns shock and awe just the same.  

“Fuck, a driver and everything?  How rich _are_ you?”  He whistles lowly.

Louis chuckles.  “Just part of the job.”

“Shit, sign me up,” Zayn jokes.

Louis smiles tightly in response.  “Let me finish this smoke and we can go.  There’s a place just a few blocks from here.”

Zayn nods.  He’s itching for a cigarette himself, but Louis is nearly through with his, and he’s much more eager to continue with their conversation.  It’s all happening so quickly, and so easily. At this rate, he’ll trap Tomlinson in a sting mere weeks from now, and he’ll be back to his normal life.

 

//

 

10 MONTHS LATER

 

He’s playing video games on the ratty sofa, in his fake flat that’s come to feel like home, when Louis lets himself in.

“Hey, mate.”

“Hey,” Zayn grunts in response.  He’s so close to finishing this level, and he will not let Louis fuck it up for him.  

Louis kicks off his shoes; Zayn can hear them hit the wall, thudding one after the other, like they always do.

“Don’t pause the game on my account or anything,” Louis jokes as he pads into the lounge area.

“So fucking close,” Zayn grits out, grimacing as his character on screen narrowly dodges a spell.  And steps right into a knife. “Ah, fuck.”

He tosses the controller aside as Louis flops down next to him.

“Brought you a pack of Red Bull and some cigarettes.”  Louis sets the cans and carton onto the coffee table, then helps himself to a drink.

“I love how you act like you’ve brought them for me just so you have them when you’re here.”

Louis shrugs, cracking open the can.  “Maybe if you went to the shops every now and again.”

Zayn reaches for the carton of Marlboros and tears off the plastic wrapping.  “Yeah, well, they cut my hours at the cafe. Business isn’t good enough to keep three busboys on part time.”

Louis frowns at him over the lip of his drink, then swallows.  “Maybe you ought to find something else.”

When Zayn’s back story was created, the team assumed that a person with a drug-addled, hard knock life, but with a high end look– much like Louis himself– would be the perfect person to reel Louis in.  Zayn quickly learned, however, that Louis takes no pleasure in the work that he does, and certainly wouldn’t encourage anyone to get involved in the business, especially someone who reminds him of himself.  In the beginning, Zayn pressed him to let him in on what Louis’s been up to, hopeful that it’d be the in he needed, but Louis has always been adamantly against it. He refuses even to sell any product to him.  Not outright, of course– he’s always been careful to speak in coded language about the nefarious side of his work. Not even the time when Zayn did the best acting of his life, pretending to be in withdrawals and desperate, did Louis budge.  

“It’s alright.  I’ve got you to feed me every once in a while, and it’s not like they piss test me there.  Speaking of, think I’ve still got the containers from last time.”

The first time Louis had invited Zayn over for dinner at his flat, Zayn had jumped to accept, eager to catalogue everything he could about what he might find in the home.  To his disappointment and intrigue, it was exceptionally clean, and practically bare of personal touches. Curiously bare, enough to make a person think they didn’t actually call the penthouse home.  The smoking gun was the complete lack of comic books, of which Louis had claimed to be a collector. He’d even lent Zayn a vintage Spiderman. Zayn’s never reported on his finding, because he figures it has more to do with their privacy outside of the watchful eyes of John Bosco more than anything.  He still isn’t sure how they get in and out of the building undetected, however.

Louis waves him off.  “There’s more where that came from.”

Zayn purses his lips, quite certain that Harry would disagree.  Last time he’d been over for dinner, Harry’d spent a good ten minutes searching for the lid to the container he’d sent leftovers home in.

As if on the same wavelength, Louis says, “He wants us to meet him at the pub tonight, by the way.”

Zayn digs through the bowl of odds and ends sat on his shitty coffee table in search a lighter.  “You mean he wants you to meet him, and I’ll tag along like I always do.”

Louis scoffs.  “Shut it. He asked specifically to see you.”

“Yeah, cuz he knows it’s the only way you’ll go.”

Louis pulls a face.  He hates hanging round the pub, and Zayn gets it.  It isn’t his favorite place either. Full of pretentious wankers.  

He sighs.  “Fine, I’ll go.  But drinks better be on the house.”

Louis grins, darting forward to muss up Zayn’s hair.  “They always are, Zizi.”

Louis fucks off for a few hours, saying something cryptic about a work meeting.  Zayn takes a kip instead of taking Louis up on his offer to tag along, but not before shooting a text to Marco informing him of nothing new to report.  Hours later, they’re stepping foot into Harry’s pub. The place is packed and loud, as it always is. Zayn obviously knows that the business is only a front for hiding Louis’s illegally obtained funds, but he imagines it must do quite well all on its own, if the size of the usual crowd is anything to go by.

A few people recognize Louis as they make their way to the back of the pub.  Louis waves, shakes hand, and even stops for a few seconds of small talk on his way to find Harry.  Zayn dutifully stands next to him, pushing down the nerves that always come to him in large crowds. In his real life, he doesn’t really care for busy places with lots of people, and he likes small talk even less.

Harry’s sat at the back of the pub, a gaggle of people surrounding him in the booth, per usual.  He’s speaking to his friend Rick, but when Louis catches his eye he immediately moves to get up, knocking Rick jokingly in the shoulder to get him to move out of the way.  Rick stands with a groan, nodding in acknowledgment towards Louis. Louis sends him a halfhearted wave in return.

Harry and Louis have always been stupidly possessive when it comes to sharing one another with friends.  Zayn is no exception to that. The first time Louis’d introduced them, nearly eight months ago, Harry’d thrown Louis _the look_ that Zayn has seen before, the ‘you didn’t tell me he looks like _that’_ look, and then glared Zayn down the rest of the evening.  Their relationship has improved since then – marginally. Zayn senses that Harry doesn’t totally trust him, and the feeling is certainly mutual.  He’s noticed Harry’s wandering eye. It’s subtle, but it’s there, in the way his eyes glimmer when speaking with an attractive customer, or the way he playfully interacts with employees.  Louis has seemed unconcerned in the few times Zayn has attempted to bring it up, so it’s on the back burner for now. Personally, he can’t see why a person would need to look any further if they’ve got Louis in their bed.

“Hey,” Harry says with a grin, pulling Louis into a quick embrace, then offering a fist bump to Zayn.  “Hey, Zi. Glad you guys could come. Want a drink?”

“Obviously.”  Louis tugs on a lock of Harry’s hair.  Zayn barely suppresses an eyeroll.

Louis had been cagey about his relationship, initially.  He’d played it off like it was a casual relationship, and Zayn had followed his lead, even though he knew their history from their case files.  It took him a good two months of hanging out before he’d even been introduced, and even now, aside from the occasional pub visit and dinner, he and Harry rarely interact.  It’s alright though– the only thing they seem to have in common is Louis, so they get together for his sake when necessary.

He takes small sips of the beer Harry’s given him, preparing to do his usual toilet run to dump the rest, in order to stay sober.   Louis and Harry are talking about Louis’s upcoming tournament at the Palms Casino. Zayn knows Louis’s attendance will serve multiple purposes.  In addition to winning a lump sum, he’ll be lining his pockets as the primary supplier for the participants.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to get away next weekend,” Harry is saying regretfully.  “We’re supposed to be redoing the office in the back, and I need to supervise.”

Louis scoffs.  “I see how it is.  You choose the greasy pub over a two person soaker tub all to ourselves.”

Harry pulls Louis right off his stool and into the space between his knees.  “I’ll make it up to you in our own tub tonight.”

Zayn looks away with practiced indifference until they stop with the slurping sounds and Louis is back in his own seat.

“What about you, Zi?” Louis asks him as he rearranges his shirt.  “You up for it?”

Zayn takes another sip of his drink.  “Dunno how Harry’d feel about you and me in a soaker tub, Lou.”

Louis laughs, and Harry smirks.

“No, I mean, you wanna come and keep me company?  Free food and booze. I could use your help with a delivery, too.”

Zayn sits up a little straighter.  It’s an open secret between them, what Louis really does for John Bosco, and it has been for months.  It would be difficult to hide with how often they hang out, what with the strange hours, mysterious phone calls, and near-24 hour security.  Louis’s never used the words, even when Zayn has pushed him, but lately he’s given him a few ins. Zayn used to take meticulous notes about Louis’s activities, but he can admit he’s been slacking a bit lately.  This might be the first time Louis’s been so blatant.

He should take this one.  There’s enough time to set up a sting.  His superiors have been getting antsy, waiting for Zayn to make a move.  It just doesn’t feel like the right time. He’s desperate to wrangle Bosco in somehow, and this wouldn’t give him the opportunity.  Louis is only a consolation prize in comparison to reeling in the big dog. Bosco may have supplied the coke, but he won’t be attending, as it’s a competing casino to his own.  

Zayn shakes his head regretfully.  “Nah, man, I’ve got a double at the cafe on Saturday.  I’ll be dead on my feet after.”

Louis shrugs, but not before glancing at Harry.  They do that thing with their eyes, a full conversation with just a raised brow and a tilt of a chin.

“Alright.  Want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Louis asks, after a beat.

Zayn gazes at the pair of them, trying to suss out what just happened between them.

“Depends.  Are you two going to forget I’m in the next room and start fucking again?”

“Pssh, that was one time!” Louis scoffs, as Harry smirks with mirth beside him.  

In fairness to Louis, it wasn’t his fault that Zayn played such a convincing drunk that he’d set him up on the sofa for the night to sleep it off, and then forgot about him in his own drunkenness.  Zayn is quite certain it wasn’t an accident on Harry’s part, judging by the way he’d sauntered back into the lounge mere minutes later, naked as a jaybird, and not at all surprised to see Zayn staring in horror back at him.

“Yeah, alright,” Zayn agrees, because Harry’s a good cook, and also he feels guilty that he isn’t keeping Louis company on the weekend.   Gambling has always been a source of pleasure for Louis, but dealing drains his soul like nothing else.

Louis grins, then tugs on Zayn’s hoodie string and dunks it into his beer, just to be a shit.

 

//

 

Zayn knocks on Louis’s door the next evening, after being escorted up to their floor by security.  (He’d been patted down in the lobby as well, something that hasn’t occurred in several months). Harry answers a minute later, looking rather frazzled.  His cheeks are flushed and his hair is falling haphazardly out of its bun. At least he’s wearing clothes this time.

Zayn groans.  “Not again, fuck.  You invited me, remember?”

Harry just blinks at him dumbly for a few seconds, then dimples slyly once he’s caught on.  “Oh! No, none of that. I’ve just overdone the roast and I can’t find the seasoning I swore I’d ordered for the veg.”

He turns back into the flat, leaving the door open for Zayn to follow.  

“There’s a solution to that,” Zayn suggests.  “Shop for your own groceries.”

Harry ignores the barb.  “May I take your coat?”

Zayn laughs a little at the formality, but shrugs off his leather jacket.  He considers grabbing his mobile from the pocket, but no one in this life will try to call him aside from Marco, so he leaves it.  Harry takes the coat and disappears into the bedroom, emerging a few seconds later with Louis on his heels.

“Hey, Zi,” Louis says warmly.  He’s wearing comfy joggers, and his hair is wet, pushed off his forehead with one of Harry’s headbands.  “I just got in.” He looks drawn, and a bit anxious, in only the way drug business makes him. “Been a long, shit day.”

Zayn frowns, reaching out to pat him.  He hates to see him like this. “Anything I can do to help?”

Louis exchanges a quick glance with Harry, and a tiny alarm bell jingles in the back of Zayn’s head.  

“After tea,” Louis decides.  “Want a beer whilst we wait?”

Zayn looks from Louis, who’s tugging on the bottom of his jumper like he does when he’s feeling insecure, to Harry, who’s turned his back on the both of them to peer into a pot on the stove, shoulders tense.  Something’s up with them.

“Nah,” he says, after a brief inner debate, because he doesn't feel up to the task of faking inebriation tonight.   Louis shrugs, going to the fridge to grab one for himself. Then he sets it on the worktop, unopened, and instead focuses his gaze on Harry, who’s still puttering about by the stove.  

“Did something happen?” Zayn asks, after a lengthy silence, uncustomary in the presence of Louis, who always fills the quiet with anything from the important to the mundane.  “I saw you upped security again.”

Louis waves away his concern with an unconvincing shrug.  “Just a pissed off client the other night. Same shit, different day, innit?”

“Yeah, them businessmen really get violent about their lease agreements,” Zayn teases, watching Louis carefully for a reaction.

Louis chuckles, shrugging, but Zayn still catches the brief flicker of apprehension in his eyes.  After all these months, Zayn finds Louis relatively easy to read, even though he’s a walking contradiction– he’s guarded, yet lonely.   Good-hearted at the core, yet forced to make morally corrupt decisions daily. It’s all in the eyes. Frankly, it’s a shocker that he’s as good of a gambler as he is, with the way he gives himself away emotionally.  

Zayn opens his mouth to question him further, but is interrupted by Harry.

“Food’s ready,” he says with false enthusiasm, prodding at the roast in the cooker.  “Might be a bit tough, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

(Harry, in contrast, is much more of an enigma.  Although he’s extremely personable and well-mannered with strangers and acquaintances, it often seems like a mask– like an act put on for an audience.)

Things go back to normal as they sit down to eat.  Harry tells a long-winded and boring story about his conversation with a customer at the bar, and Louis teases him good naturedly about his penchant for remembering, and recounting, irrelevant details.

He does notice that neither Louis or Harry have a drink with dinner, however.

At the end of the meal, Louis and Zayn stack the dishes in the sink as Harry sees to the leftovers, loudly complaining that Zayn hasn’t brought back the containers he’d been sent with last time.  The tension has returned, once everything is cleaned up and they’re stood awkwardly in the kitchen.

“I feel like there’s some sort of elephant in the room,” Zayn admits with a nervous chuckle.  He’s spent the last thirty minutes wondering what Louis’s about to say. The possibilities he’s entertained range from the most likely– such as Louis asking him to deal, to the absurd –that he’s about to announce he has some sort of terminal illness.

Louis glances at Harry, who nods encouragingly.  “We do have something to tell you. Or, ask you, rather.”

“If it’s a threesome, the answer is no.”

Harry rearranges himself against the counter in agitation, opening his mouth to respond.  Quickly, Louis butts in, gesturing with his head to the lounge as he suggests, “Let’s sit, yeah?”

“You’re freaking me out,” Zayn says, as he follows Louis into the lounge area.  “What’s going on?” He can’t help but notice that Louis arranges himself so he’s seated facing Zayn on the sofa, but Harry perches on the coffee table in between them, effectively blocking his exit.  Purposeful or not, he can’t be sure.

“We need your help with something,” Louis tells him.  “It took us ages to decide if we could trust you, but you’re the only one who can help us.”

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly, glancing between them curiously.  “Dunno how, but I can try.” It’s something big, or the pair of them wouldn’t still look so apprehensive.  “Is it something illegal?” God, he hopes not.

Louis’s silence is not comforting.

It’s Harry who breaks the news.  “We want you to help us get out.”

“Get out?” Zayn repeats.  “What, of the drug business?”

“Yeah,” Louis confirms.

Zayn blinks, shocked silent.  “How?”

 Louis shrugs.  “We’re not entirely sure yet.  The only thing I know for certain is that I'll only get out if they think I'm dead.”

The unease Zayn has felt all evening peaks at those words. “You want me to pretend to kill you?” he asks incredulously.  

"Not you, personally," Louis says with a shrug.  "Your role would be more important than that."

Harry sighs loudly.  “You’re dragging this out on purpose.  Just tell him already.”

Louis glares at him.   “Ten months of work have gone into this one moment, Harry.  Let me enjoy it.”

Harry puts up both hands in concession.

Louis clears his throat.  “We know who you are, Zayn,” Louis says.

For a moment, everything is frozen as he processes what Louis’s just said.  His pulse works overtime as his brain comes to the understanding that he’s likely been made.

His training takes over, and chuckles in puzzlement.  “What?”

“Zayn Malik,” Harry says.  “You’re an undercover detective.  You’ve been reporting on Louis for almost a year now.”

Fuck.  He _has_ been made.  He’s all alone at their flat, he hadn’t told anyone his location, and his mobile is in the other room.  Potentially already destroyed.

He laughs again, playing it off.  It sounds forced to his own ears. “What the fuck are you talking about?  I’m not a bloody copper.”

He’s got to get out of here.  Somehow, he’s got to make it out of here alive.  He’s pretty certain he could take Louis down, if he had to.  Harry, with his protectiveness and documented rage problems, particularly with the police– he’s a different story.  Put the two of them together, and Zayn hasn’t got a chance.

“You are,” Louis tells him.  “I knew it from the moment I met you.”

“You’re mad,” Zayn says.  “You’re a fucking dealer. If you thought I was police, you wouldn’t have come near me.”

Louis shrugs one shouldered.  “I wanted to see how it would play out.”

Zayn stands.  “This is ridiculous.  I’m leaving.”

Louis and Harry stand, too, and Zayn’s painfully aware that he’s backed into the couch, with little momentum to gain if he were forced to throw a punch.

“Zayn,” Louis says.  “I know you’re freaking out right now, but we’re not going to hurt you, I promise.  You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Zayn does know that– at least, he thinks he does.  Louis has witnessed some things, thanks to the brutality of the drug world, and it absolutely kills him inside.  Zayn knows he’s not a violent person. But he might feel differently knowing prison time was hanging in the balance.  

“We just want to talk,” Louis continues. “I think you could help us.”

“I can’t,” Zayn says.  “You’re wrong about me.  I can’t. I’ve got to go.”

Harry takes a tiny step forward.  ‘You can’t do that.”

“Oh, stop threatening him,” Louis snaps.  “Zayn, mate. Please. Just sit and listen to us, that’s all I ask.  Then we’ll let you go.”

Zayn wavers.  “I’m not a policeman,” he insists again, far shakier than his first declaration.

Louis rolls his eyes.  “Detective, whatever. It’s not use denying it, Zayn.  I don’t love you any less for it. I told you, I’ve known all along.  I’ve accidentally called you Zayn like, three times, and you’ve never noticed.”

Zayn is aghast.  “You haven’t!”

Louis makes a ‘gotcha’ face, complete with finger guns, and Zayn can’t help but let the corners of his mouth tilt up, just a little.

“Lou,” Harry prompts.  “Can we get to it?”

Louis turns imploringly to Zayn.

Zayn sighs.  He’s already been made.  Whatever is about to happen will happen, whether or not he tries to escape now, or listens to what the pair of them have to say.

“If I turn up dead in a ditch tomorrow, they’ll know who did it,” he grumbles.

Louis laughs.  ‘That’s the spirit.”

They rearrange themselves on the sofa again.  This time, Harry chooses to squeeze in next to Louis, instead of hovering across from Zayn.

“So how’d you know, then?” Zayn asks tonelessly.

Louis shrugs.  “It was the way you asked questions.  And the look in your eye anytime I answered them.  You were too curious.”

Zayn scoffs.  “I could’ve just wanted a piece of the pie.  Or to get into your pants, or summat.”

Louis shakes his head.  “After Harry met you and noticed what I noticed, he did some digging.  Did you know your secondary school production of _Grease_ is on YouTube?”

Zayn shakes his head, dumbfounded.  The back of his neck feels hot and his fingers have gone all shaky.    

“Also, your mum posted about your promotion on Facebook three years ago.  Youngest detective in your division,” Louis tells him proudly, and Zayn honestly can’t tell if it’s due to Zayn’s achievement or Harry’s sleuthing skills.  “Should’ve scrubbed social media a bit better, eh?”

Zayn winces, knowing the lie he’d told Louis in the beginning about his mum having passed, a part of his profile meant to draw Louis further in.  Louis, for his part, doesn’t look terribly bothered, though Zayn knows it must have stung, to learn that bit of the truth.

“Don’t be too cross with her,” Harry urges, leaning around Louis.  “She had everything locked down, but I created a fake profile of a long distance cousin and she accepted my friend request.  It took me a long time to even figure out your name.”

Zayn stares at him.  “That… is frightening.”

Harry shrugs, smiling sheepishly, and drops a hand onto Louis’s knee.  “All for a good cause.”

Zayn runs a hand roughly through his hair.  He could use a cigarette, or three. “So, why’d you expose me now, after almost a year?”

Louis looks down at his lap.  “Because neither of us can do this much longer.”

Zayn frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“How long do you think they’ll keep you on if you keep giving them nothing?”

Zayn scoffs.  “I haven’t given them _nothing.”_

He has, in fact, given them next to nothing. As a result, he’d just had a meeting last week with Marco about the feasibility of continuing the operation, when Louis was providing nothing substantial.   

Louis stares at him.  “Mate, you could have turned me in ten times over, and you haven’t done it yet.”

Zayn sputters.  “That’s not true!  I need to be certain there’s solid evidence, so there’s no doubt–”

“Zayn, you follow my every move.  You’ve known when I’ve been somewhere making a deal. You’ve even been sat in the same room as me!”

“That’s not solid evidence, though!” Zayn cries.  “I’ve never _seen_ the product, and you’ve always used code words.”

Louis scoffs.  “Oh, come off it.  I gave you plenty of opportunities.  You could’ve set up a sting, easy. You could’ve kept pressuring me to get you a job, but you stopped. Fuck, I even asked you _just_ yesterday if you wanted to come with me to pick up a delivery and you said you’d rather have a nap instead!  You don’t _want_ to turn me in.”  

Hearing the plain truth out loud, it hits Zayn like a bucket of ice water.  Louis is right. Zayn’s been going out of his way to keep from having to keep Louis from being arrested or implicated.  “I am doing my job. I am. It’s Bosco I’m after now, not you.”

Louis shakes his head grimly.  “There’s no way I’m getting out alive by implicating Bosco.  But I promise you we’ll get you someone, so you can do your job, too.  And when I’m free, I’ll somehow find a way to get you all my information on Bosco.  I promise you, Zi.”

“If it’s safe,” Harry says suddenly. He’s been so quiet Zayn nearly forgot he was here.  “Only if it’s safe, he’ll give you information.”

Zayn listens to the sounds of their breathing in the silent flat.  Shortly after getting to know Louis, seeing how he ticked, and how he desperately despised the work he was doing, he realized couldn’t be the person responsible for putting Louis behind bars.  He’s beginning to come to terms with being corrupt by omission, but he’s ’s not sure how much further he’s willing to go than that.

“I see what you’re thinking,” Louis tells him.  “And I know it’s asking a lot– too much, probably, for you to risk everything like this.  But me and Harry’ve got some ideas about how we can make it worth your while. We can finger some other guys along the way.”

The three of them exchange immature smirks, the gravity of the moment shattered for a split second by the innuendo.   

“So what are you asking for, exactly?” Zayn asks.  His initial instinctual blind panic has faded to a much more reasonable erratic heartbeat.

Louis shrugs, one shouldered.  “Whatever you’re willing to give us.  You don’t have to answer today, either.”

“Unless you’re going to say no and turn us in,” Harry says with a frown.   “In which case you can save us the trouble now.”

Zayn shakes his head.  “Think we already know that’s not going to happen, at least.”

“So you’re saying yes, then?” Louis jumps in.  

Zayn bristles.  “You said I could think about it, so let me think about it.  If it comes out that I even have knowledge about this if something goes down, I could lose my job, or worse.”

Louis sobers quickly. “I know.  You’re right. Take your time, mate.”

It goes awkward quickly after that.  Zayn’s got so many thoughts in his head he can hardly focus on the inane chatter Louis and Harry make to help cut the tension.

“You’re out of your mind,” Louis is saying, when Zayn tunes back in.  “Captain America aside, Evans looks like a high school gym teacher. Besides, his beard looks too soft.”

Harry frowns.  “What has that got to do with anything?”

Louis waggles his eyebrows.  “Part of the fantasy, innit? Who wouldn’t want beard burn courtesy of every Chris except Pratt and Evans?”

“Beard burn?” Harry’s glower deepens.  “I can’t grow a beard.”

“I should go,” Zayn says suddenly, because he’s got significantly more important things on his mind, and because Louis’s got that look in his eye that says he’s about to wind Harry up good and tight, and he doesn’t need to see the aftermath.  “I’ve got to go.”

They turn toward him, wide eyed, like they’d forgotten he was there.  Honestly, Zayn’s used to it. They frequently go into their own little world when they’re together.

“Oh,” Louis says, standing along with him.  “Sure, yeah.” He and Harry trail him to the door.  

“D’you want to take some roast home with you?” Harry offers after a beat, like it’s any other day they’ve shared a meal.  He doesn’t understand how they can be behaving so normally, after completely bursting Zayn’s cover, concisely calling him out for what he had avoiding thinking about in great detail– that he had no intention of ever completing his assignment as originally planned.

“No,” Zayn says.  “I need my jacket, though.  Please.” A tiny part of him is still surprised that he’s just being willingly let go.  Undercover detectives know the dangers they face when they’re made. He takes Louis at his word that he’s not in danger, but he can’t help his instinctual reaction.

Harry nods.  “Right. One second.”  

Louis looks down at his feet as Harry disappears into the bedroom.  “So, are we going to see each other again, then? Or is this it?”

Zayn pulls back, surprised.  “What?”

Louis chuckles sadly.  “You’re gonna go ghost on me now, aren’t you?”

Zan hesitates.  The thought has certainly crossed his mind.  It’s enough for Louis’s face to fall, before he covers with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  “It’s fine. Had to end sometime.” He steps closer. “For the record, though, I may have known about you, but I wasn’t faking it.”  He sighs, finally looking Zayn in the eye. His own are damp with unshed tears. “You’re my best friend, Zi.”

It’s the absolute truth.  In the short time he’s known Louis, he’s learned so much about him.  He knows he likes milk first in his tea, that he cries at the drop of a hat when watching films.  He knows that Louis donates a pair of trainers to the local shelter every time he buys himself a new pair (which is often), that he loathes horse racing but takes bets on it anyway, and loves McDonald’s so much he’d have it twice daily if Harry let him.

They’ve discussed everything together, from politics to psychology to comics.  Louis is a formidable debater, and an excellent listener. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever met someone he’s clicked with so quickly and thoroughly.  Louis might know more about the real him than just about anyone else in his life.

Somewhere along the way, Zayn’d become best mates with his target.

The backs of Zayn’s eyes prickle, and his throat goes tight.  “Yeah. You too, Lou.”

Their moment is interrupted by Harry shuffling back into the room, Zayn’s jacket over his arm.  He takes one look at Louis’s face and is on instant high alert.

“What’s happened?”

Louis shakes his head, doing a much better impression of a happy person this time around.  “Nothing. Just saying goodbye. Zayn says he’ll be in touch.”

Zayn nods, playing along.  Harry looks understandably unconvinced.

“Thanks for supper,” Zayn says.  “I’ll erm, ring you later.”

Louis smiles tightly.  “Course, mate. Bye.”

And then he’s on the other side of the door.  Still breathing, but feeling half-dead.

  

//

    

The way Zayn sees it, he’s got a few options.

The first, and most logical one is that he alerts his contacts that he’s been made, and allow himself to be pulled from the investigation.  The second is to continue on and set Louis up using the knowledge he’s already gleaned. Because Louis is a drug dealer. Like it or not, against his will or not, Louis collects money in exchange for cocaine.  He’s broken the law, and ruined lives, and probably been indirectly responsible for a handful of deaths, too.

And yet, it's a little pitiful how fast it takes him to make a decision that could ruin his career, and quite possibly his life.He texts Louis on a late Tuesday evening, four days after their fateful dinner.  It’s the longest they’ve gone without speaking since they met, and Zayn misses him.

_Can we meet?_

Louis text backs thirty minutes later.  

_At the Acorn_

Zayn’s only been there one other time with Louis since their first meeting.  Although Louis often frequented it during the surveillance stage before Zayn went undercover, he hasn’t spent much time there since.  He’s been kept busy by Bosco and the higher end casinos.

Louis isn’t playing when Zayn arrives.  He’s seated at the bar, nursing the dregs of a drink.  He’s in a suit jacket with a band t-shirt underneath, his patented ‘rich but still cool’ look he does so well.  He looks up as Zayn approaches, apprehension clear on his face.

Zayn holds his open palms in front of his chest in a gesture of peace.  Louis hesitates, then nods at the vacant stool beside him.

“Just a Coke, thanks,” Zayn says to the waiting bartender.  “How are you?” he asks Louis.

Louis shrugs, peering into his empty drink.  “That depends, I suppose.”

“On what?”

Louis puts his glass to his lips again, a nervous gesture, Zayn knows, on account of it being bone dry.  “On what you’ve come to tell me.” He looks Zayn up and down. “Have you got a wire hiding under there?”

Zayn shakes his head.  “You know I haven’t.”

Louis raises one brow challengingly.  “Do I?”

Zayn huffs, hopping off his stool to lift his shirt and turns slowly in a circle.

Louis snorts.  “As if coppers these days still use wires and microphones.  Let me see your mobile.”

“You’d be surprised, actually,” Zayn chuckles.  He digs in the pocket of his leather jacket for his beat up mobile, then sets it in Louis’s outstretched hand.  

Louis promptly drops it into Zayn’s recently delivered Coke.

“What the fuck, Lou?” Zayn cries, reaching for the glass to fish it out.

Louis snatches it away and slides it down the bar to the shocked bartender.  “Keep an eye on that, would you?”

Zayn glares.  “Really?”

Louis shrugs nonchalantly, a sinister glimmer in his eyes.  “Can never be too sure.”

Zayn scoffs.  “Well, I was coming here to tell you that I’d help you, but maybe I’ve changed my mind now.”

Louis’s blank face transforms into delighted shock.  “Fuck, really?”

“Yes, really,” Zayn says. “The way I see it, I’ve gone this far.  What’s turning a blind eye for a bit longer going to do?”

Louis whoops, raising his glass in celebration, then snorting when he remembers it’s empty.

“Don’t get too excited,” Zayn warns, as Louis gestures to the bartender.  “I’ll look the other way, but I’m not going to actively help you.” He waits until the bartender has deposited Louis’s fresh rum and coke in front of him and moved further down the bar before he continues.  “No planting evidence, no false testimonies. Nothing like that.”

Louis claps him on the back, grinning.  “Course, mate. Knew you’d come around.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow.  “Really? Then why were you moping at the Acorn?”

Louis smiles, only a bit sheepish.  “Everything’s a gamble, innit? Would’ve been poetic if everything started and ended here, though.”

Zayn has to agree.  “Did you really have me made from the beginning?” he asks, because it’s been eating away at him.  He thought he'd done a pretty convincing job, if he does say so himself.  

“Well, maybe not immediately,” Louis says.  “But we'd suspected something was coming, on account of the surveillance.  Then you fell into my lap and asked just the right questions, enough to be suspicious.  It was Harry who insisted we look into it."

Zayn rolls his eyes.  "Of course it was."

Louis ignores his snark, used to it by now.  “So, what happens now?”

Zayn shrugs.  “You’re the one with the plan.  The less I know, the better, probably.”

“Right.”  Louis takes one more gulp of his drink, then shifts to grab his wallet.  “FIFA at your place?”

“Definitely.  And you’re paying for my soda.  Now I’ve got to meet up with someone for a new mobile.”

Louis shrugs, unconcerned with Zayn’s plight, and throws down more than enough to cover their drinks.  “You know,” he says, as they make their way to the exit. “You’re a really shit detective.”

Zayn punches him in the arm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case)!


	5. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you there, readers? It's me, HamPalpert. Terribly sorry for the ridiculous wait on this. 
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own!

HARRY

LONDON

13 JUNE, 2024

Louis’s mobile is ringing.  Loudly. Harry groans and rolls over, away from the sound.  He typically sleeps like the dead until morning, unbothered by any sort of noises Louis makes when he occasionally collapses into bed just before the sun rises, like tonight.  

“Sorry, darling,” Louis murmurs.  He’s a deeper sleeper than Harry, on a good day.  But if Harry’s been dealing with a fair amount of stress, Louis’s anxiety is tenfold.

“Time is it?” Harry asks with a groan.  It’s out of the ordinary for Louis’s phone to ring during the late night and early morning hours.  It’s one thing he managed to put his foot down with Bosco, successfully convincing him that peddling cocaine in the dead of night is not something that a man with high end clientele would do.  If there’s anything John Bosco hates more, it’s the suggestion that he hasn’t got any class.

“Zayn?” Louis says into his mobile, ignoring Harry’s question.

Harry sits up, suddenly wide awake.  The adrenaline gives him whiplash.  He holds his breath, straining his ears to hear the other side of the conversation.

“Okay,” Louis says briskly.  His hand finds Harry’s wrist and squeezes.  “Yeah, we’re ready. Wait a few though, yeah?  Don’t want to look suspicious.”

Harry’s heart beats wildly in his chest as Louis tosses the phone down onto the bed and turns to him with an anxious grimace.  “Zayn just got a call. You’ve been implicated.”

Harry exhales loudly.  They've been waiting for this news, but he doesn't feel much relief at hearing it.  “So he took the bribe, then.”

Louis shrugs.  “You don’t say no to John when he offers you a deal.”

Harry rolls his eyes.  He hates it when Louis speaks so informally of that cunt Bosco.  “Wish we didn’t have to involve him at all,” he grumbles.

Louis sighs, scrubbing his hands down his face.  “And what of that bloke, Jared? We’ve sold him to the wolves.”

“Don’t think of it like that,” Harry urges, patting Louis’s knee soothingly.  “Jared sold drugs to schoolchildren, knowingly. He deserves his fate.”

Louis huffs.  “And what of the shit I’ve done?  You can’t always excuse my terrible actions because you love me, you know.”

“Uh, yes I can.”  Harry lies back down,  curling into Louis’s body and pulling him close.

The tenseness in Louis’s body diminishes, just a little.  He smooths down Harry’s wild bedhead. “Listen, try to kip for a few.  Zayn’ll be over soon to give us more information.”

They lie there in silence for several minutes, holding one another close.  Harry wants to memorize the way Louis’s bare skin feels against his, from the top of his scalp all the way down to the cold tips of his toes, currently tucked under Harry’s calves.

It’s a strange, delicate moment.  They’ve spent years planning and discussing and arguing and deciding, and now that the time is here, it’s almost surreal.  They doze together, never fully succumbing, as the first pink glow of the sunrise leaks through the curtains.  They’re not talking about it, but they’re both treating this moment like a prelude to goodbye.

“Shower with me?” Louis requests after a while, when they've lingered long enough.   He glides his fingers lightly over Harry’s pecs. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, pulling the duvet back.  He chuckles as Louis shivers, just like he always does.  If everything goes exactly as planned they’ll only be apart for a fortnight, at most, but he’s going to miss these mundane moments.  It’ll all be worth it, though, to see the light back in Louis’s eyes. 

There will be some downsides though, such as missing the double headed rain shower in the penthouse.  He’ll have to go back to always getting the cold spot in a single person shower, crowding into Louis for warmth.

On second thought– that’s not so bad after all.  They kiss leisurely under the spray, hands wandering over wet bodies.  Louis is the fittest lad Harry's laid eyes on.  Harry's been a goner from the moment he spotted him across the dining hall in Moorland. He's a different sort of fit these days.  His many hours of training in the gym and pool have transformed his slight, soft curves into hard, wiry muscle.  Harry loves him every which way, but he's certainly not complaining now. Louis could probably ride him for hours, his stamina is so impressive. If only Harry could last that long.

“Zayn’ll be here soon,” Louis warns after a sharp inhale, as Harry’s hand wanders lower.

“We'd better be quick about it then,” Harry grins into Louis’s mouth.  He’ll have a raw patch round his chin thanks to the friction of Louis’s stubble, but sharing an orgasm with lips intimately attached the entire time is well worth it.

After they're sated and clean, Louis throws on a pair of joggers and a tank and pads out to the lounge to wait for Zayn, whilst Harry does something with his hair.  It’s longer than it’s ever been, and he thinks it quite suits him. He’ll miss it. He suspects Louis will too, although he’s not a massive fan of the man bun, the look Harry decides on for the day.

He hears voices as he emerges from the toilet, and finds Louis and Zayn seated on the sofa, digging into breakfast.  

“I’ve brought bagels,” Zayn says to Harry, through a mouthful, gesturing to the large paper bag sat in front of them.

“Thanks.”  Harry sits on the chair opposite the sofa and helps himself.  There’s only the salmon and cream cheese left, but he isn’t picky.

“Eugh,” Louis pulls a face suddenly, then digs through his salt beef for the hidden pickles.  

“Oh, sorry mate,” Zayn says. “Didn’t even think about it.  Give ‘em here.”

“Open,” Louis commands, swatting Zayn’s hand away. Zayn laughs, obeying. The first pickle lands on the shoulder of his Marvel shirt, but he catches the second and third in his mouth like a pro. They cheer like children, pumping their fists into the air.

Their easy familiarity tugs at Harry’s heartstrings, and he tucks into his bagel with fervor to disguise his sudden misty eyes.  Louis has very few close mates by design, and he’s about to lose his best one, and while Harry will feel mostly relief when Zayn is in their past, he knows it'll break Louis's heart.

“So,” Zayn begins with purpose, the moment Harry’s swallowed his last bite.  “Jones caved to pressure from Bosco, as expected. The pair of detectives on the case have already done a file review on the both of you and asked to meet with me.  Looks like they bought the planted story.”

“Great,” Harry says dryly.  It does bother him a bit, if he’s honest, playing the part of the idiot between the pair of them, but he’s got enough self-awareness to know that it wouldn’t be believable the other way round.  “Who are the detectives?” Harry asks.

“Niall Horan and Liam Payne,” Zayn says.  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Harry.  Harry stares down at their professional photos.  They're each in dress blues, smiling without teeth.  Good looking blokes.  “Horan’s the lead detective, but I don’t think I’ve met him before.  I remember Liam a bit.”

“Do you think they’ll be any trouble?” Harry asks.  

Zayn shrugs.  “No more than anyone, I don’t think, if the motives are believable enough.”  It had been Zayn’s idea for Harry to turn on Louis as motivation for his death, as just one more layer of possibility for the who and the why.  

Louis launches himself across the sofa, tackling Zayn into the seat.  “Aw, Zaynie. Who’d have thought Mister ‘I’ll look the other way’ would be helping us plan our escape?”

Zayn shoves Louis bodily off him, playfully indignant.  “Oi, get off.”

Louis’s phone rings in the middle of his ruthless attempts to wrestle Zayn off the couch.  All of them stiffen instantly when they hear it. It’s his ringtone for Bosco.

“Probably wants to talk about the deal,” Louis says, untangling himself from Zayn.  “Give me a sec.”

“No specifics,” Zayn reminds him.

Louis gives him an unimpressed look.  “Believe it or not, I have been doing this for a while now,” he deadpans.  Then he disappears into the bedroom, sliding the doors shut behind him.

Harry and Zayn watch the closed doors for a few seconds in silence.  They’ve never done too well on their own, without Louis as a buffer.

“Bosco’s quite eager,” Zayn comments, after a beat.  

“Why wouldn’t he be?  He’s got the chance to get his shit product out of his hands, and get O’Neil out of the game all at once.  And all at no risk to him. Only to Lou.” He can’t keep the sneer from his voice. He feels no qualms about all the times and ways he’s imagined John Bosco’s untimely death.

“Well, in fairness, he’ll be losing his best asset,” Zayn reminds him.

“Yeah, but he’ll never know Louis stuck it to him.”

Zayn sighs.  “You know why we need him on board.”

Harry barely restrains an eye roll.  Of course he knows. Tricking Bosco into thinking he’s part of the plan to fuck over O’Neil is crucial to Louis’s safety.

“I know how tempting it must be, to get revenge,” Zayn says carefully.  “But you’re getting your lives back, should everything go alright. The rest you’ll have to leave to me, once you’re far away from here.”

Harry shrugs reluctantly in concession.

They’re interrupted by the sudden opening of the bedroom door.  Louis’s fully dressed now, looking smart in the way only he can in a coordinated tracksuit and hastily styled hair.  He strides purposefully to the kitchen worktop, where he’s left his cigarettes and keys in the dish. 

“Duty calls,” he says briskly, finally turning to the other men.  He’s got his work mask on. Anyone who didn’t know him well would think he was all business, but Harry can see the anxiety in his eyes.  

Harry stands from the sofa and pulls Louis into his arms, holding him tightly round the waist.  Louis hugs back, burying his nose in Harry’s shoulder.

“What’re you doing today?” he mumbles into Harry’s collarbone.

Harry inhales the scent of Louis’s pomade.  “Mm. I’ll spend some time at the pub. Make sure everything’s in order.”  He gives Louis’s sides a quick squeeze, and Louis squeezes back in understanding.   There are things that Zayn doesn’t know, for everyone’s protection.

“Good,” Louis says.  “Ring me if anything happens, yeah?”

“Yeah.  You too.”

They kiss for probably a bit longer than acceptable amongst company, but Zayn, for once, doesn’t even roll his eyes.

//

Time passes, as it does, too slowly and too quickly all at once.  All Harry can do is pace, and wait, and hold Louis close when he gets the chance, and be ready for the end when it comes.  And it comes, less than 48 hours after their morning phone call.

Louis leaves at midnight, high on adrenaline and nerves, on his way to make the deal of his life, with strict instructions to Harry to attempt to get some sleep whilst he's gone.  In return, Harry makes him promise to be back by morning, for a proper goodbye before they're separated.  

Harry tosses and turns, but that’s as much as he manages.  Over the years he’s learned to quell his crippling fear that something utterly terrible will happen to Louis whilst he’s out, but this deal is different.  It’s not selling to the clueless elite eager to numb the pain of their vapid lives, but to a dealer himself, with skin in the game and a reputation to uphold.  This is much more high stakes, and Harry is kept up imagining all the ways it could go wrong.

The sun has already begun to streak through the curtains when there’s a key in the lock.  Harry bolts out of bed and rushes into the lounge, to find Louis depositing a bakery box onto the worktop in the kitchen, shoulders slumping as he exhales in relief.

“It’s done,” he says.  “Fuck.”

Harry strides forward, embracing him tightly.  Louis keeps his arms at his sides, but he leans into to the hug.  He’s practically vibrating from the adrenaline. “You’re alright?” Harry confirms, dipping his hand under Louis’s shirt and rubbing up and down his back.

Louis nods into Harry’s shoulder.  “Thought for sure O’Neil was onto something.  They were armed.”

“Jesus.”  Harry squeezes him tighter.  “It’s over now. We’re almost through.”  

Louis kisses Harry once on each swallow.  He clears his throat, emotional. “Zayn’s already called it in.  We’ve got a few hours, if we’re lucky.”

Harry inhales sharply.  The moment they’ve both been dreading, but haven’t spoken about.  Louis has a bad habit of sweeping difficult things under the rug, and Harry lets him, this time, because his heart breaks just thinking about being apart for a spell– or worse, being separated indefinitely.   He won’t think about that now. He’s going to make the most of these last moments.

“Come lie in bed with me, then.”

Louis remains plastered to Harry’s chest unhelpfully, forcing Harry to walk him backwards into the bedroom.  He tips them over onto the bed sideways, and they land with an oof and a laugh, but don't disentangle.  Louis’s arms are linked tightly round Harry’s waist, and he’s got his ear pressed up against his chest.  Harry moves his lips lightly back and forth over the crown of Louis’s head.

“Alright, enough of this,” Louis says finally.  He unwinds himself from Harry’s arms and sits up to pull his t-shirt over his head.  “Show me how much you’ll miss me.”

He’s being cheeky, but the backs of Harry’s eyes sting regardless.  He busies himself with tugging Louis’s trackies and pants down and depositing the discarded clothes at the end of the bed.  When he looks back up, he sees the tears pooling in Louis’s eyes.

“Baby,” Harry chokes out, pulling Louis back into his arms.  Louis laughs wetly, wiping the tears from his eyes with shaking hands. Harry ducks down to kiss him all over his chest.  The morning sun is glittering through the gauzy curtains of their bedroom, and lighting up Louis’s body just so. His hair looks almost bronze in this light, and his eyes, always even bluer when he’s been crying, glitter like two pools of clear Caribbean water.  “Fuck, look at you.” If only he could take a picture of this moment, and keep it with him in the weeks to come. Instead he does his best to burn it into his brain, this view of his lover, flush and beautiful, laid out on white sheets, waiting to be fucked.

Possibly for the last time.

He’d better make it memorable, then.  

“Harry,” Louis whines.  “We haven’t got much time.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, leaning in to kiss Louis again on his shoulder, then down his collarbone to his neck.  “I just want to remember this forever.” He buries his nose into the soft skin of Louis’s throat and inhales.  Then he starts up the kisses again, trailing down to Louis’s tiny, pert nipples. Louis hisses when Harry sucks one suddenly in his mouth, hands rising to tangle in Harry’s hair.  Harry gives the Ieft one a peck to ease the sting, then moves across to the right. He takes a much softer approach this time, laving the sensitive bud with his tongue.

Louis lifts his hips, grinding into the air.

“I’m getting there,” Harry assures him.  “Let me take care of you.”

“Or I could take care of you,” Louis offers.

Harry shushes him.  “You’ve taken care of me from the moment we met.”

Louis scoffs, shifting in agitation.  Sensing he’s about to argue, Harry shuts him up by dipping down and mouthing at his cock.  This time, when Louis moves, its to buck up up into Harry’s face.  Harry pins his hips down with one arm and uses the other to spread his legs further apart.  Louis moans when he sucks his balls into his mouth, and his dick, only half mast beforehand, twitches with further interest. Harry runs a finger along the shaft and grins at the sound of Louis’s groan.  He makes Louis endure a bit more teasing before he finally takes him all the way into his mouth. He massages his knuckle over Louis’s perineum, and Louis moans and spreads his legs at the knees, encouraging further exploration.  

“Roll over, baby,” Harry urges, sucking Louis down to the base one final time.  Louis whines but does as he’s told, coming up onto his knees and burying his face in his elbows.  Harry’ll turn him over when he fucks him so they can see one another’s faces, but for now he wants to worship a very special asset.  Louis’s got the most perfect bum he’s ever seen.  Despite hard workouts, he’s never lost that bit of jiggle Harry loves so much.  Harry slaps him once, just to watch the bounce, then spreads both cheeks and dives in.

Louis makes the softest noises during sex.  He sighs as Harry wets him with his tongue and whines when a finger is added.  Harry rubs and licks mercilessly, until Louis cries out, his tell that he’s ready for more.

“Condom,” Louis suggests, when Harry crawls over him to the bedside table.  Harry grimaces, but does as he’s told. He wouldn’t want to be leaking whilst sitting in an interrogation room either.  Perhaps they should've done this the other way round.

Louis watches him, hands tucked under his chest and arse still in the air, as Harry rolls down the condom and slicks himself up.

“On your back, please,” Harry requests.  “I want to look at you.”

Louis huffs fondly as he rolls over.  Harry wipes his hand on the sheets before leaning down to pull Louis into a kiss.  They tongue into one another’s mouths as Harry arranges himself between Louis’s spread legs.  Louis inhales sharply, dragging his hands from Harry’s shoulders to the nape of his neck and back again.

He thrusts slow and deep, and watches the flutter of Louis’s eyelashes with every movement.  He’s always unfairly beautiful, but especially when he’s completely vulnerable like this. Harry feels himself tearing up again.  The moment is simply too overwhelming.

Devastatingly, he’s also begun to go soft.  He picks up the pace, desperate to get back to full mast, but finally gives up with a sigh, ducking his head.  Louis pushes his hair out of his face with gentle fingers.

“It’s alright, darling,” he soothes.  “Come here.”

Harry flattens himself against Louis’s chest and allows the tears to leak out.  Louis’s legs are still wound tight around him, even as his flaccid cock slips out.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.  You can make it up to me when we’re reunited.”  Louis kisses his shoulder. “We don’t have to do this, you know.  We could stay here.”

Harry pushes up on his elbows to stare at him.  “Yes we do. We deserve our lives back.”

Louis gestures around them.  “We won’t have any of this when we go.  No more Gucci clothes or car services.”

Harry huffs.  They’ve been over this dozens of times before.  “Lou, all that shit’s nice, but I’d leave all of that behind to never have to watch you suffer.  Give me a shit flat and a terrible job and you, and I’ll be just as happy.”

Louis chuckles.  “Well, that's precisely what you're getting, so you’re in luck.”  But he sobers quickly, moving onto his side to prop his head up on his hand.  “Are you certain you’ve got everything you need?”

Harry nods.  “Brought over everything the other day.  I’m all set.”

“Good,” Louis says.  “Zayn said if he could get away, he’d come up to help you afterwards.”

Harry hums in the affirmative.

Louis tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear.  “Listen, if something goes wrong and you’re already away, I need you to promise me you won’t come back.”

Harry sits up abruptly.  “What? No!”

“Harry,” Louis says patiently.  “We always knew if Bosco somehow got wind I’d be slaughtered.  He wouldn’t hesitate to go after you too.”

“But I’ll technically already be dead,” Harry argues.  “You can’t expect me to just leave you–“

He’s interrupted by a sudden bang and a shout.

“Police!” a voice bellows from the hall.  “You have twenty seconds to open this door, or we’re breaking it down!”

“Shit,” Louis hisses, launching himself from the bed. “Fuck, you need to go now!”  He races to the window and wrenches it open.

Harry scrambles up too, catching his ankle in the bed sheet and nearly braining himself on the footboard.  Then he rushes to Louis and kisses him hard.  “I love you.”

Louis grips Harry tightly by the wrist as he swings his leg over the sill.  “Promise me you won’t come back,” he demands.

“Lou!  No!”

Louis grips him harder.  On the other side of the flat, the countdown is halfway gone.  “You need to promise me you’ll stay safe if something happens to me.”

Another second ticks by.  Harry nods, swallowing down his tears.  “I promise.”

“I love you,” Louis says, releasing him.  “Go!”

There’s no time to look back.  Harry darts out the window and catapults himself down the fire escape as the door of their flat is split with a loud crack.  Harry rounds the corner of the lower landing so quickly he nearly teeters over the edge. He crouches, bare-arsed, at the window one floor below his own, and yanks it open, then drops onto the hardwood into the empty bedroom.  His knees sting with the impact. He winces, but pushes through the pain and stands, closing and locking the window, then pulling the curtains tightly closed. Mere seconds later, there’s shouting, and the sound of boots against metal as police swarm the fire escape.  He should get away from the window, but he doesn’t trust his body to move. He sits there, panting and naked, with a cold, slimy condom around his soft dick, until the commotion returns central to the floor above his head, where Louis is currently being arrested.

He waits until the urgency dies down above him, until surely Louis is already in the back of a police car, before he stands, heading for the washroom off the bedroom.  

“Thank God for business trips, eh Paul?” he says to no one as he pulls the condom off his dick with a wince and deposits it into the bin under the sink.

When their neighbor and acquaintance, Paul, is in the country, he and Harry leave the building at the same time in the mornings, often sharing a lift and small talk before they start their day.  As it so happens, much of Paul’s time is spent in Asia, leaving his flat conveniently unoccupied. He’d asked Harry to pop in every so often months ago, just to be sure the cleaning crew isn’t robbing him blind.  It’s like divine intervention, if Harry believed in that sort of thing.  The perfect opportunity.  Everything’s gone predictably so far. When will the other shoe drop?

He collects the small bag of clothing he’d stashed earlier, feeling hurried and frazzled, even though he’s got hours to wait.  His hands shake as he pulls up his pants. All he can think about is Louis. Are they interrogating him? Leaving him to sit in his cell?  Just moments after separating, and it already feel like days apart. He can’t imagine what sort of agony awaits him in the week or so to come. 

Hours later, after he's about paced the wood floors of Paul's flat to death, and it's finally time to move.  He takes the service stairs, the only stairwell without a working security system, down the basement and through the boiler room. The cellar door on the other end of the loud, humid room opens up to a labyrinth of alleys.  Harry takes off at a trot down the alley, not slowing until he's put a few blocks between himself and the building, whilst the idiot police, none the wiser, surveil the front.  

He hasn't used the tube in ages, too used to car services.  He ducks his head, kicking himself for not thinking to grab a cap, but the other passengers ignore him, and one another.  His nerves increase exponentially as he gets off at his stop, and he feels as though the beat of his heart is visible on the outside of his shirt as he walks the few blocks to his pub.  This is where he’ll be taken in, there’s no doubting it. There’s an unmarked van parked up the street. Police are so painfully obvious, it’s almost laughable.  He imagines he’s got a matter of minutes before they’re in to speak with him, so he’ll have to say his goodbyes to his business quickly. The pub has been an unexpected joy in his life.  They’d purchased the pub under Harry’s name for the primary purpose of hiding illegally obtained funds, but Harry’s found that he quite likes the hard work and opportunities for socialization that it’s brought him. He’ll miss it a bit, if he’s honest.  

“Hey mate,” Jamie, one of his favorite bartenders says in surprise, when Harry sidles up to the bar.  “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“Unofficial business,” Harry says with a grin, accepting the beer he’s handed.  “What a turnout tonight, eh? This really is quite the place.”

Jamie gives him a funny look.  “Yeah, it's great, Harry. Listen, enjoy your night, yeah?”

Across, the room, a crowd of regulars he’s come to know as mates are waving him over.  He grins, making his way toward them, but midway there he sees her. She’s seated by herself on one of the sofas in the back, sipping on a martini as she scans the room.  Harry abandons his mates and walks swiftly over to her, dodging and jostling patrons along the way.

She spots him when he’s just a few feet away and smiles almost bashfully, twirling a strand of long red hair round her finger.

“Hi,” Harry says, a bit breathless from surprise, and affection.

She blinks up at him, heavy false lashes surrounding bright blue eyes.  “Hi, Harry.” 

Shortly thereafter, everything goes to shit.  

//

The moment he opens the door, Zayn barrels into him, forcing him backwards until his back his the wall with a bang.  The air whooshes out of his lungs, and Zayn takes advantage of Harry’s shock to pin him with an elbow to the neck.

“I should kill you,” Zayn hisses, spittle flying.  “You piece of shit.”

“Zayn,” Harry rasps, shoving him hard in the chest.  Zayn stumbles backwards, but boldly advances again, fists raised.  “Stop! What the fuck?”

“I saw the fucking photos!” Zayn yells.  “I knew you were up to shit. The day Lou gets taken in and you pull this!  Are you even planning on leaving with him at all?”

“Shut the fuck up, of course I am!” Harry roars back.  “You don’t understand!”

“Explain it to me, then!”  Zayn cries.

Harry pushes himself upright, away from the wall.  “Put your hands on me again and I will fucking end you.”

Zayn scoffs, eyes hot with rage, but stays where he is.   

“We… we have an understanding,” Harry says haltingly, reluctant to explain himself at all.  

“An understanding,” Zayn repeats, voice heavy with sarcasm.  “You’re telling me Louis knows you’re fucking around and is alright with it?”

“Yes,” Harry insists.  “It just… it is what it is.  We make it work.”

Zayn’s shoulders rise and fall with the force of his breathing, but he sounds almost dejected when he says, “He never told me.”

“Don’t you think he would have?  If he were bothered?” Harry sighs.  “Zayn. I’m not asking you to understand, but I need your help.  Please. For Louis, at least.”

Zayn crosses his arms and considers him, jaw set.  Finally, he nods jerkily. “I’m sorry,” he says, almost sullen.  “I shouldn’t have put my hands on you. Even if you don’t deserve him.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says.  “I should’ve expected it. And you’re right.”  He smiles tentatively. Zayn doesn’t return it, but he doesn’t look moments away from murdering him any longer either.

”Let’s get the over with,” Zayn mutters finally.

Harry’s shoulders slump in relief, even though he knows he was never in danger of losing Zayn’s help, not really.  He’d been ready to string Zayn up when he’d discovered his real identity, and even after Louis’d convinced him to trust his judgement and ask Zayn for his assistance, he was distrustful.  It’s only been in the last few months, where Zayn had given up on passively looking the other way and begun to actively assist them, that Harry’s come round. Zayn has proved his loyalty to Louis tenfold, counting his actions just moments ago, which Harry can appreciate.

“Come and help me grab everything?” Harry requests, gesturing toward the bedroom.  

“Did you really have to deck Horan in the face?” Zayn asks wearily as he follows Harry.

Harry shrugs.  “He deserved it.  Tried to manipulate me into folding.”

“Yeah, _after_ the fact.  He was just doing his job.  All police aren’t bad, you know.”

Harry snorts.  Even Zayn, who’s all in all a decent bloke, is still corrupt.

“What’re you doing?” Zayn says in alarm, as Harry swings a knee over the sill of the window he’s just opened.

“Couldn’t leave the bags of blood and the tarp in my own flat, could I?  It’s just one floor down.”

Zayn shakes his head, suddenly ashen.  “No. I’ll stay here. I’m not bringing my DNA into someone else’s flat.”

Harry shrugs.  It’s a fair point, but he’s pretty sure it has more to do with Zayn’s fear of heights.  Harry doesn’t particularly like them either, but– the things you do for love. “Suit yourself.”

His bags of blood have been thawing in Paul’s refrigerator since last night.   He’s not particularly looking forward to bathing in his own cold blood, but the sooner he begins, the sooner it’ll be over.  He makes two trips, handing the gym bag filled with blood through the window, then returning for the plastic tarp. When he’s back in his own flat, he’s taken aback by Zayn’s appearance.  He’s decked out in a shower cap and plastic gloves.

“To keep my DNA from spreading,” Zayn explains peevishly.  “Shut it.”

The laugh Harry has at Zayn’s appearance is a brief reprieve from the constant heaviness he’s felt in his heart ever since he turned his back on Louis at the police station.  His devastation is even more apparent when he catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Even though he stopped his crying jag an hour ago, his face still bears the marks.  The skin around his swollen eyes is mottled, and his lips are bitten raw. Seeing the proof of the day’s events on his face is enough to set him off again.  Turning on Louis, even for the sake of their escape, and then walking away, leaving him to fend for himself– it's the most difficult thing he's ever done.

Zayn, sensing Harry needs a moment, busies himself with laying the tarp round the base of the bathtub without a word whilst Harry composes himself.  After a splash of water on his face and wiping his nose with some toilet roll, Harry rejoins Zayn at the tub, where he’s unpacking and inspecting the blood bags.

“This looks right professional,” Zayn comments, seemingly impressed despite himself.  “Dunno what I was expecting. Did you do this in your flat?”

“Yeah.”  He isn’t lying, exactly.  He _had_ done it in his flat, but he couldn’t risk doing it in _this_ one.  

Their old flat, just blocks away from Harry’s pub, has forever remained home, literally and figuratively. Louis had been adamant that they keep a piece of themselves just for them, not dictated by his lifestyle, paying several years advance in cash as incentive for their landlord to keep his mouth shut, should anyone inquire.  It was difficult, leaving most of their personal items behind, but in the beginning they’d had a much easier time slipping away to spend time at their cozy old flat.

In the past year or so, Louis especially couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion by ditching his security and potential surveillance to cuddle up in their old bed, glow of the fairy lights bouncing off their skin.  But Harry managed to sneak away once a week. It was necessary, to have a safe place to collect and store his blood draws. It took him ages to learn to poke himself with the needle, and he thinks he’s probably got permanent scarring on his arms to prove it.  On the plus side, if he ever wants to pursue phlebotomy in his new life, he’s got a good amount of real life experience.

“Hmm.”  Zayn looks entirely disbelieving, but doesn’t comment further.  “You ready, then?”

Harry exhales loudly.  “Suppose so.” He pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it into the laundry hamper, where he’d put the clothes Louis had last worn.  He may have sniffed them a bit. His pants join his t-shirt in the hamper.

“Do you really need to be naked?” Zayn wrinkles his nose in disgust, looking away pointedly.

Harry smirks, giving him a little wiggle just to make him squirm.  “Why would I be wearing pants in my own home? We’re going for authenticity here.  Not to mention,” he steps into the tub and barely suppresses a hiss when his back hits the cold porcelain.  “Easier cleanup.”

Zayn just shakes his head and snips at the corner of an IV bag.  “Try to lie like you’re unconscious.”

Harry lets his legs fall open at the knees and drops his hands, palm up, to his sides.  Carefully, Zayn sits on the edge of the bath and leans over, carefully pouring the blood where the cuts would be.  

Harry closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth, struggling to stay out of his own head about the fact that he’s currently bathing in his own blood.  He’s not particularly squeamish, and had no trouble with the blood draws aside from some lightheadedness. But this is far more morbid, far more graphic. He cracks his eyes open to see how Zayn’s faring, and finds him gazing back at him pensively.

“What?”

Zayn shrugs, cutting open another bag.  They’re halfway through already, and the blood is creeping up the backs of Harry's thighs.  The coppery smell is overwhelming now. He thinks he might be sick.

“D’you know the last thing Louis said to me?” Zayn asks, suddenly.  “We didn’t exactly get a proper goodbye in all the rush, but he made me promise that no matter what happens to him, I’m supposed to make sure you get out alive.”

Harry swallows thickly, remembering the promise of his own he’d made Louis before they parted ways.  “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow.  “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me to do the same for him?”

Harry gazes at him evenly.  “I don’t need to,” he says slowly.  “I already know you’ll do anything for him.”  The ‘ _and I know why, too’_ goes unsaid.

Zayn is the first to look away.  “It isn’t like that.”

Harry very much doubts that.  He trusts Louis, and has done his best to respect their friendship– as much as he can with one of them being a copper– but he’s always wondered about Zayn’s intentions.  But it’s no matter now.

“That’s the last one.”  Zayn ties off the plastic grocery bag in which he’s been collecting the rubbish.   “You ready to get out or d’you want to sit and enjoy it for a bit longer?”

“Out, now!” Harry insists.  Another minute and he just may go mad.

Zayn snorts.  “Been looking forward to this bit.”  He stands and strips down to just his pants.  Harry’d always assumed the skin past his arms was also tattooed, but he hadn’t been prepared for the sheer amount of work on his chest.

“No wonder they gave you this gig.  You look a right hooligan.”

“You’re just jealous coz you’ve got that chicken scratch all over you.”

“Hey!” Harry objects.  “They’re not all awful!  Lou and I worked hard on the theme!”

“Yeah, those ones are nice,” Zayn concedes.  “Go limp.”

It takes several tense seconds, and quite a bit of shouting and panting, but Zayn finally manages to lug Harry over the side of the tub and onto the plastic tarp.  They wipe themselves down as thoroughly as they possibly can with wet wipes. There’s clotted blood in Harry’s leg hair that won’t possibly be fully removed until he has a shower, but he can’t do that here.  Instead, he changes into loose clothing, helps Zayn wrap up the tarp and rubbish into the smallest ball possible, and shoves it into a rucksack. The bathtub is grisly. Harry turns away.

After silently ensuring that it looks like there was a struggle, Zayn waits for Harry at the door as he takes one last look round at the flat.  Although it’s never felt quite right, it is the nicest place he’ll ever live. It’s also strange to leave with nothing but the clothing on his back, never to return again.  Not even his mobile goes with him.

The nerves kick in again as the two of them move swiftly down the service stairs.  Harry tucks his long hair under a cap and adjusts the rucksack with the evidence of their fraud on his back. His palms are sweating.  They continue down through to the basement, and Harry jiggles open the boiler room door with the faulty lock.  Just at the door to the alley, Zayn stops Harry with a hand on his arm.  

“I’m on the Outhousers.  It’s a comic book forum. Z the Vanisher.  All one word.”

Harry furrows his brow.  ‘What?”

Zayn shrugs.  “In case you wanted to keep in touch, in some way.”  He chuckles humorlessly. “Let me know you’re not dead.”

Harry nods.  They'd agreed almost immediately that it would be safest for everyone that Zayn not know where they were heading, but if they could find some way to do it safely, he'd love for Louis to get some closure.  “I’ll pass that along to Lou.”

Zayn bites his lip.  “I was thinking actually, if something happens, and Louis can’t leave so soon... I was thinking I could find a way to let him in you’re alright.  You know how much it’d kill him to be left in the dark.”

Harry frowns.  “Are you expecting that to happen?”

Zayn shrugs, glancing away. “No harm in preparing for plan B.”

It’s clearly a front, but like a coward, Harry doesn’t confront him on it.  He can’t entertain anything less than everything going precisely to plan right now, when he’s hours away from leaving the country, and Louis, behind.

Harry nods, blinking away the prickling in his eyes.  “The Outhousers.”

“ZtheVanisher,” Zayn repeats.

“All one word.”

Zayn nods.  “Listen. Lou loves you.”

Harry sniffles.  “And I love him.”

Zayn stares him down.  “Then treat him like it. No more bullshit.  No matter what he says, he doesn’t deserve it.”

“No, I–“ Harry clears his throat.  “I won’t. No bullshit.” Zayn can’t possibly understand the circumstances, not with what little information he has.  All Harry can do, in this moment, is promise to be better in the future, and stand by it. “I know we haven’t always... clicked, you and me.  But I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. And for Lou, especially. He’s really gonna miss you.”

Zayn blinks, brown eyes glittering with unshed tears.  “Me too.”

They don’t linger, after that.  They clap one another on the shoulder, then go out the door, one by one.  The last Harry sees of Zayn, he’s adjusting the brim of his cap and turning round the corner.

And just like that, Harry’s on his own.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case)!


	6. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to J for the beta on this chapter. All remaining errors are my own. 
> 
> Deepest apologies for the wait. Love to you all.

LOUIS

COBHAM, SURREY

1 MAY, 2023

Louis taps his foot against the plush oriental rug nervously.  He’s sat in the sitting room of his best and wealthiest client, Philip Watson.  He’d been greeted by a maid at the front door, then escorted personally to the lounge by Philip’s wife, who’d smiled, tight-lipped, whilst offering him a coffee.  She’s a lovely woman, but she’s rightfully suspicious of a man nearly twice her husband’s junior calling at 11 in the morning on a Saturday, especially given Philip’s past (and likely current) transgressions.

“Louis!” Philip cheers, when he finally appears in the doorway of the sitting room.  “I must’ve been a very good boy to earn a house call from one of my favorite dealers.”  Louis’d first met Philip three years ago in a VIP box at the Royal Ascot. Philip had given him a long, lingering once over behind his wife’s back, and soon after became a very frequent customer, both in gambling and cocaine.

“One of them?” Louis repeats with teasing suspicion.  “Are you cheating on me?”

Although the smile doesn’t slip from his face, the sparkle leaves his eyes, and Louis’s heart sinks.  It was a poor joke, given Philip’s personal history. But Philip, trained since birth to sidestep awkward conversations, moves on smoothly.  “What on earth are you wearing on your feet?”

Louis gasps, affronted.  “They’re Balenciaga!”

“Oh, in that case,” Philip mocks, nose in the air.  “Come through to the study, would you?”

Philip’s home is palatial and ornate.  They pass family portraits of long-dead aristocrats encased in gilded frames, and wind up in a dark oak-lined study, shelves lined to the ceiling with books.  It smells like the library in Louis’s sixth form. Not that he’d spent much time there.

“Would you like a drink?” Philip asks, closing the door behind them and already reaching for the whiskey off the drinks cart.

“Why not,” Louis responds drily.  It’s not gone noon, but maybe it’ll calm his nerves.  He accepts the glass and braces himself as he sniffs, then sips.  He’s never been a fan of whiskey, but he’s had more than his fair share ever since he’s started rubbing elbows with the elite.

Philip lounges on the opposite couch, smacking his lips with pleasure as he enjoys his drink.  “You and your boy still going strong?”

“Harry,” Louis reminds him, unable to keep from smiling. “Yeah, all good.  That’s part of why I’m here, actually.”

Philip clutches his chest dramatically.  “You’re finally making my dreams come true with a ménage à trois?”

Louis’s smile is more of a grimace, because he’s not that far off. “Actually, we’re, ehm, looking for a getaway.”

 “A getaway,” Philip repeats, pursing his lips.  “You’d like my advice for your holiday?”

Louis fidgets with his fringe under his cap.  “A permanent holiday, maybe?”

Philip leans forward in his seat, setting his drink on the coffee table in front of him.  “I see. Old Johnny not treating you well?” There’s no love lost between Philip and John Bosco, despite running in similar circles.  Philip comes from old money, quite unlike Bosco. Despite eagerly partaking in Bosco’s best products, London’s uppercrust hold no admiration for even the most successful of drug peddlers.

“Everything’s fine,” Louis lies.  “It’s just as a safeguard, really.  So we have options. Should things go tits up.”

Philip is still staring pensively at him.  “And you thought you’d come to me about this?”

Louis shrugs.  It’s very hush hush, what Philip does, but people like to talk when they’re high, Philip included.  Louis knows he’s been involved with legal documentation forgeries in the past. If anyone can help Louis and Harry leave the country, it’s him.  “Thought you might have some good advice.”

It’s a calculated risk, coming here to ask such a favor.  He and Philip may be friendly, but they certainly aren’t close.  But he’s prepared to make it worth Philip’s while, should he agree.

Philip exhales loudly.  “You know I like you, Louis.  You’re easy on the eyes, and sharp as a tack.  Lord knows you know more about me than you should.”  Louis’d once walked in on Philip and his longtime friend, Stephen Maynard, in a rather compromising position in the toilets of the Four Seasons, and he and Harry enjoyed an expensive bottle of Dom Pérignon in exchange for his discretion.  As if Louis’d ever dream of outing him.

“And I admire your courage, to live your life out in the open,” Philip continues, smiling ruefully.  “I’d like to help you. I’m just not sure you can make it worth my while.”

Louis leans down to grab his rucksack.  He pulls out a full brick, then pushes it over the coffee table toward Philip.  “Go easy on this one,” he advises. “Packs quite the punch.”

Philip nods slowly.  “I appreciate the offer.  But I can get good quality powder anywhere.  What else have you got?”

Louis swallows.  He’d expected this.  He and Harry had discussed it, argued about it, and eventually agreed to only go through with it should they both be present.

“Well,” he says.  “There’s me. And– and there’s Harry.”

Philip raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He leans back in his seat, smiling devilishly.  “I knew you’d get there on your own. Clever boy.”

“There’d be rules,” Louis says bravely.  “He’s my– we’re each other’s person, y’know?”

“I understand,” Philip says.  “I’m not a complete monster. This may shock you, but I rather prefer my sexual partners not need to fake being attracted to me.”    

Louis frowns.  “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’d like to watch,” Philip says plainly.

Louis exhales slowly, relieved.  It’s better than he could have imagined.  Philip isn’t terrible looking. He was very likely a well attractive silver fox– ten years ago.  But he was not looking forward to sleeping with him. And more than anything, he was not looking forward to sharing Harry.  But this they can work with.

“Alright, deal,” Louis says.  “So long as you can follow through on your end.”

Philip nods, reaching again for his drink.  “You’ll cover any fees I may incur.”

Louis nods.  “Yeah.”

“Any special requests?”

Louis leans forward.  “It’d have to be somewhere we can be together.  Safely, you know.”

“Of course,” Philip agrees.  “How’s your french?”

Louis grimaces. “Shit.”

“Spanish?”

Louis shakes his head. “And it’s got to be someplace Harry could make it alone, if he needed to.  In case I- well, if I don’t end up joining him.”

Philip raises startled eyebrows. “You’re in more trouble than you let on.”

Louis shakes his head.  “I’m not. But if anyone were going to be, it’d be me.”

Philip hums, looking dubious.  “Knowing John, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Louis suppresses a shudder.  He’s thankful to have always stayed on Bosco’s good side, but he’s seen things- things he can’t bear to tell Harry, and wouldn’t dare tell Zayn.

“Well,” Philip says, clapping his hands together and eyeing the brick in front of him.  “I’m desperate to give this a go. Can I offer you a taste?”

Louis shakes his head.  He remembers, before all this, how he’d enjoy getting high on a night out.  But these days he rarely imbibes, if he can help it. Dealing cocaine, being responsible for lives ruined (and in a few cases over the years, lost) has forever ruined what was once a good party favor.

“I’ll leave you to it.”  He retrieves his empty rucksack from the floor and stands.

Philip grins.  “One has to admire a young man who manages to wear thousand pound trainers whilst carrying a cheap Marlboro rucksack.”

Louis looks down at his bag.  “It’s my pride and joy, this! I saved up the points for years!”

Philip blinks at him.  “I’ve genuinely got no idea what that means.”

Louis is escorted to the front door, after Philip secures his coke in his locked desk drawer.

“We’ll be in touch, then,” Philip says.

“Thank you,” Louis says genuinely, holding out his hand.  “You’re giving us a chance at a new life.”

Philip’s grip is strong, and his grin is cheeky.  “And you’ve made an old man’s dream come true.”

//   

HM PRISON PENTONVILLE, LONDON

24 JUNE, 2024

Louis shivers, tucking his arms into his sides as much as he can with his wrists secured to the metal table.  His cell is scorchingly hot, and he’d dressed accordingly this morning, unprepared to be brought into an interrogation room first thing after breakfast.  

He’s sure the ambiance has something to do with the chill.  With its eerily blue fluorescent lights, the grey walls, and its contents nothing but a table and three chairs, the one way mirror, and a mounted camera, the room does nothing to provide any semblance of warmth or comfort.

Not that anything could bring him comfort right now.  He’s being held on remand, something they’d considered but hadn’t anticipated when they’d made their plans.  In fact, Louis had tried his hardest not to think about the possibility. For good reason, too. It’s torturous in ways that he couldn’t even have imagined, knowing that, had everything gone to plan, he’d be on his way to Harry rather than awaiting a trial that could be months away.  

A trial that he might yet lose.  

He knows Bosco’s got his connections.  He knows it’s unlikely he’ll actually be sentenced.  John wouldn’t have agreed to it if he thought he’d be out one of his best employees for more than a few months.  Despite this, he can’t stop himself from considering what life will be like if he is found guilty. He’ll be looking at six years, maybe?  Six years of isolation, or six years of fighting to stay alive in general population, now that he’s got a massive price tag on his head. He can’t decide which one is worse.  Neither scenario includes Harry, who won’t even be able to visit, or write, or email.

He’s tortured himself nearly every minute of the day wondering what’s happened to him.  Did everything go to plan? Is he far away from here? Was he apprehended? He might be held two cells down, and Louis would be none the wiser.

The door finally opens, several minutes after he was left alone by the guard.  Louis looks up lazily, prepared to assume his usual cool demeanor, but he jerks in surprise when Zayn strolls in, manila folder in his hand.  

“Zi?”

Zayn levels him with an unimpressed look.  “Surprised?”

Louis knows he looks like a fish, with his jaw hanging on the floor.  He hadn’t expected to see Zayn ever again, and is he ever a sight for sore eyes.  But they’re not alone, and he needs to act his part.

“You!” Louis shouts, straining against his chains.  “You’re the one who did this? You were my best mate!  I trusted you!”

Zayn smiles placidly.  “I’m a detective. It’s my job to make you trust me.  Mad props to you though, mate. You held out for a long time before you gave me anything good.”  

Louis spits on the floor.  “Pig.”

Across the table, Zayn’s eyes go wide as he fights the urge to laugh.  Okay, so Louis took it too far.

“If you’ve quite finished,” Zayn says coolly, lips still twitching.  He’s lucky he’s got his back to the people in the viewing room. “I’ve got something I need to show you.”  He opens the folder in his hands, then holds out a photograph in front of him.

Louis’s stomach roils.  It’s a photo of his bathtub in the penthouse, looking so realistically like the scene of a gruesome murder that he can taste bile rise at the back of his throat.  The tub is covered in congealed blood, almost black in color. There’s a heavy streak of blood coming out the bath, clearly an imprint from a body dragged heavily out.  

He shudders, blinking away the sudden sharp sting of tears.  He knows it’s fake. But that’s Harry’s blood. That’s Harry’s body that’s been sat in his own blood, and dragged out onto a tarp.  It’s shockingly realistic.

Zayn taps his finger, almost impatiently, against the part of the photograph where a tiny post-it has been placed.  Louis’d completely missed it initially, so preoccupied with the gory photo.  He has to lean forward to make out the words, written in Zayn’s handwriting:  

_He made it._

Louis turns shocked eyes to Zayn, who nods almost imperceptibly.

“Oh my God.”  The stress and the worry that’s been sat on Louis’s shoulders releases in a sudden whoosh of emotions.  He buries his head in his hands and allows himself to cry with relief.  Regardless of what happens now, at least Harry is out, and safe.  If nothing else goes Louis’s way, at least they have that.

He feels Zayn’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly once before releasing.

“I’m so sorry, but you know I gotta ask you, bro,” Zayn says, voice soft.

Louis jerks his head up.  “What the fuck are you implying?”  He swipes at his nose with the collar of his shirt.  “He should’ve been protected! They said he made a deal!  You know there’re people after me, and you let this happen!”

Zayn glances at the viewing mirror.  “People after you?” he repeats, hint of a warning in his voice.

Louis snaps his jaw shut.  He’s meant to remain steadfastly silent on the accusations that led to his arrest, and he’s nearly slipped up.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Zayn tells him.  “I only wanted to tell you about Harry.”

Louis buries his head in his arms again and rubs his eyes against the inside of  his elbows, cognizant of his audience and the fact that he’s supposed to be moved by the evidence of the brutal murder of his partner, and not relieved by the knowledge that he’s made it out safely.  He wishes he could ask Zayn how he knows this for certain. He’d better not be fucking telling him what he wants to hear because he feels badly for him.

Zayn hovers silently, the only sound in the room Louis’s over-exaggerated sniffling.

“I’ll leave you be,” he says, after a while.  “If you think of anything, or anyone that may have had a hand in this, you let us know.”  There’s a shuffling of papers as Zayn collects his thingsLouis’d like to look at his face, but he doesn’t dare.  “My condolences, Louis. Truly.”

And then he’s left all alone.

It stays that way, for nearly two months.  

The next time he sees Zayn, it’s when he’s coming out of Crown Court, a free man.  Zayn’s stood at the smoking area along the street, gazing at the court steps. It’s just barely drizzling out, and the rain is staining his wine-red suit at the shoulders and making his hair fall in his eyes as smoke curls around his head.  He looks like the brooding bad boy in a romance film. Louis knows they can’t speak to one another, knows his every move is still being scrutinized by reporters and police alike, but he can’t leave without acknowledging him somehow. Without saying goodbye.   

The guilt nearly swallowed him up, watching him testify.  Zayn’s only hard line, after everything he’d done, was that he didn’t want to have to testify in court.  Louis was meant to have disappeared by now. Zayn was only supposed to need to write a report and move on, but instead he’d been forced to lie under oath.  Louis will never be able to repay Zayn for what he’s done for him.

Louis raises his hand in a silent goodbye, mouth tugging down in the corners, hoping his face conveys everything he can’t say.  Across the pavement, Zayn pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, mirroring Louis’s wave. Then, the moment passes, and Zayn’s turning away.  And that’s it.

Louis exhales forcefully, feeling suddenly helpless as to what to do next.  He’s only just beginning to come back to himself now, the cool mist from the rain doing wonders.

A month and a half in solitary has well fucked him up, he’s pretty sure.  He’s never been good at alone time. Even during his other sentences, he sought out a group of mates to hang around with.  This time round he’d done his best to make the most of his time, staying on top of his fitness as much as possible, and picking up his reading habit again, as he’s done in the past whilst incarcerated.  But his thoughts were always pulled back to Harry, alone out there, hopefully safe and well, and the upcoming trial, where his own fate hangs. These past months have been excruciating, moreso even than the incarceration in which he’d broken up with Harry.  If he’d been sentenced today, there’s not a doubt in his mind that the isolation would have driven him mad long before his release came.

He’d felt mostly numb, carrying himself through the trial like an out of body experience.  He did his best to clue in when he was questioned himself, and couldn't help but hang on to every word when Harry was mentioned.  He’d tried to prepare himself for the worst, on the chance that Bosco didn’t pull through.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” someone calls out to him, jerking him back to the present.  Randall, one of Louis’s frequent drivers, is stood on the curb in front of a sleek, black SUV.  “Are you ready?”

It makes sense, that Bosco would send someone to pick him up, but Louis still finds himself surprised as he’s escorted to the back of the car and slides into the seat.  It’s only been a few months, but it feels like a lifetime since he’s felt the cool leather of a luxury vehicle against his body. Louis unbuttons his suit jacket and rolls down the window, unbothered by the rain splattering against the interior.

“Are you taking me home?” Louis asks, once Randall’s back behind the driver’s seat, already knowing the answer.

“No, sorry,” Randall says, almost regretful.  “Mr. Bosco wants a word.”

Louis hangs his head out the window until his hair is plastered to his forehead and his ears are too cold to stand it any longer.  He’s looked better, but he figures he just got out of prison, so Bosco’ll have to cut him some slack.

Randall lets him out at the carpark of the hotel, then Louis’s escorted through the lobby by a different member of security.

Bosco is sat behind the ornate desk in his office. “Louis!” he bellows, beckoning him forward with a ring-laden hand.  He doesn’t bother to stand. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Louis clears his throat.  “Hi.”

“Come in, take a load off!” Bosco urges, gesturing to a plush leather chair in front of his desk.  He folds his hands in front of him, waiting patiently as Louis moves with lead feet and collapses in the chair.

“Rough go of it?” Bosco asks, frowning.  If Louis didn’t know any better, he’d almost believe his concern was genuine.

“I’ve been better,” Louis sighs.

It’s rare that Bosco looks unsure, but he does now as he scratches at his neck.  “Heard your, erm…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “I was sorry to hear the news.”

 _‘Were you?’_ Louis wants to bite back bitterly.  Instead he says flatly, “Yes. Very devastating, as you can imagine.”

They make steady, knowing eye contact.

Bosco chuckles, seemingly impressed.  “You could’ve asked me for help, you know.  I know you don’t like when things get…messy.”

That’s an understatement.  He’d once watched Bosco brutally beat someone who hadn’t paid up, then got a fat lip of his own, and a left shoulder that aches in the cold, for reacting like a _‘Nancy boy’._ He’s learned to control his reactions since then.

“It’s alright,” Louis says.

“Why’d you do it?” Bosco asks curiously, not even a hint of judgement in his voice.  

Louis shrugs.  “He was fucking around on me.”

Bosco nods sagely, then swiftly moves on.  “I brought you here to tell you the good news.  Thanks to you, most of O’Neil’s men have switched sides.  He’s hanging on by a thread inside. I’ve upped street profits by thirty percent.”

“Wow,” Louis says, genuinely impressed.

“I’ll need you to make up the time you’ve missed, though,” Bosco tells him, as if Louis’d been on holiday and not isolated in a cell for the last two months.  “No one else has got the same touch as you. Speaking of–” he leans forward. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Philip Watson was asking round about you.”

“Oh?”  Louis’s sluggish pulse beats a bit faster at the name.

Bosco’s tone is gruff.  “Suppose he heard about your, erm-“ Like before, he stops himself there.  “You know, the talk is that he’s a poof. Probably best you keep your distance.”

“You don’t think he’s my type?” Louis deadpans.  At Bosco’s look of abject horror, he smiles drily.  “Only joking.”

It’s not like him to even remotely mention his sexuality, knowing Bosco’s personal feelings.  Frankly, it’s a miracle Louis’s lasted this long given the fact. Bosco clearly recognizes that amongst the upper class clientele, there’s a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it comes to sexual preferences. Thus, Bosco makes due by ignoring Harry’s existence as much as possible, which is perfectly fine by Louis, as it keeps everyone safer.  He knows Harry doesn’t like feeling like a dirty secret, but Louis will never, ever, forget the violent, homophobic-colored threats against Harry’s life he’d been assaulted with before he first began working for Bosco.

Bosco curls his lip in distaste.

“Sorry,” Louis says belatedly, suddenly very cognizant of the fact that now is not the time to piss him off. After years of working together, he should know better than that.  

Bosco considers him sternly, and Louis fights the urge to squirm in his seat.

“Take the next few days off,” Bosco decides.  “You’re clearly not in the right state to jump back in.  Go home, sleep for a few days, and ring me when you’re back to yourself.”  He smiles greasily. “Got to have my brightest asset feeling tip top.”

It’s the perfect out.  Louis feels a foreign glimmer of excitement, the first of its kind in many months.

“Yeah,” he agrees.  “Yeah, I think that’ll be good.”  He stands, moving towards the door.

“Louis,” Bosco says.  “I know you’re a… soft lad on the outside.  But I’ve known plenty of men who couldn’t do what you did.  Taking your sentence like a man.” He shakes his fist. “Giving people what they deserve.”

“Thanks,” Louis says after a beat, never sure how to react to the backhanded compliment.  “Speak to you soon.”

Randall doesn’t try to speak to him on the way home, which Louis appreciates.  He’s greeted with wary-eyed, false enthusiasm by the front security at his building.  He’s certain everyone thinks he had a part in Harry’s grisly disappearance. Louis doesn’t have the energy to be concerned.

The front door has been replaced, Louis is pleased to discover, once the lift stops at the top floor.  The bathtub’s been cleaned as well, Louis can smell as soon as he comes through the door. He’s beyond thankful for that– he only hopes it wasn’t their housekeeper who’d done it.  He’ll have to leave her a massive tip before he goes.

He has a wee in the guest toilet, even though he knows the en suite is clean, then tugs off his dress suit and kicks it into a ball in the corner of the bedroom.  He hates a silent house. Harry’s almost always home when he is, and now there’s no one around to bitch about his dirty clothes on the floor. He’s wary of getting his hopes up, but he’s so looking forward to annoying Harry with his untidiness again.

Blessedly, he’s tired enough not to dwell on the what ifs.  He plugs in his long-dead phone, then collapses onto the bed.  He’s conscious for long enough to discover that the sheets have been recently cleaned, then he’s out like a light.  He’s got less than 24 hours until the great escape.

He’s not exhausted enough to keep the nightmares at bay, though.  In his dream, he’s walking with Harry along a pebbled path surrounded by deep, black water.  All of a sudden, Harry stops dead in his tracks, releases his hold on Louis’s hand, and jumps.  In slow motion horror, Louis watches his pale arms disappear into the depths of the water, sinking like a stone.  He’s rooted to the spot, his shoes like cement. When he finally wills himself to leap in after him, the water keeps him buoyed to the surface, no matter how many times he tries to dive down after Harry.

He awakens clammy, gasping for breath, and twisted in his sheets.  On his bedside table, his alarm rings shrilly in his ear. It’s been months since he’s been woken up in any other way than the buzz of the fluorescent lights kicking on in his cell.  Whilst he’s not one for structure in his daily life, when in prison it’s the only thing that brings purpose to his day, and he can’t resist standing by his bedside, like he’d done every morning inside, and perform his morning exercises.  It keeps him from dwelling on his dream, and what he’s about to do– at least for a moment.

When he’s through, he pads into the kitchen, stomach roiling from hunger pains, only to find the fridge entirely empty and sparking clean.  The cupboards aren’t much better, but his cereal shelf is still intact. He helps himself to a handful of stale cereal, and regrets it immediately.   Maybe it’s for the best. He shouldn’t be attempting such a long swim on a full stomach, anyway.

He hesitates for only a moment before entering the walk-in closet.  Harry’s clothes hang neatly across from Louis’s, just as he left them.  Louis runs his fingers along the expensive fabric, huffing a laugh at the garish colors and patterns.  Harry has such a peculiar, hipster-meets-biker style. It suits him perfectly. Louis hopes he gets the chance to see how he’s recreated it on a smaller budget and scale.

He chooses his lightest, most comfortable clothing, that won’t weigh him down too terribly when wet.  Then he wanders through the flat, trying and failing to feel much of anything as he says goodbye. It’s never had character, like the other homes he’s shared with Harry.  And it’s absolutely nothing without Harry himself.

There’s nothing left to do besides get on with it.  Louis leaves two thousand pounds in cash on the worktop, with a short note of thanks for their housekeeper, before he locks the penthouse behind him and takes the lift to the carpark level.  He hasn’t driven in years. He doesn’t mind it, but it hasn’t often been necessary since their move to London, and much less so with the car service provided by Bosco. Harry still made sure the car was serviced once per year, though.  Louis suspects it’s just an excuse to get it out of the garage every so often. Harry’s always loved to drive.  There’s not a chance the petrol is still good, so he swipes a canister from the shelf of a neighbor and tops of his tank, then holds his breath when he turns the key.  The engine roars to life, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he backs out of the parking space. Harry’s latest musical obsession- oddly, Americana country, blasts from the speakers, and Louis shuts it off without a second thought.  Not even his desperate longing for Harry will make him listen to his questionable music.

Louis spends the drive to the painstakingly chosen bridge wiping his sweaty palms against the fabric of his cotton shorts.  Once he’s on the bridge, he pulls onto the side of the road and puts his hazards on, immediately receiving an angry honk and a rude gesture from the driver behind him as he pulls around him.  Louis’s heart pounds as he exits the vehicle and walks briskly to the pedestrian walkway. It couldn’t be a more perfect day to fake your own drowning. It’s hot outside, but not hot enough to keep people from enjoying the day outdoors.  He’ll have a fair amount of witnesses.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he climbs the railing.  He hovers over the edge and grips the metal tight, palms so sweaty he nearly slips before he’s ready.  

He tells himself it looks further up than it is.  He’s trained for this, physically and mentally, but he’s not sure anything could prepare a person for the real deal.

There’s a honk, then a shout, as the people around him begin to notice what’s happening.  His panic at someone reaching him before he can do what he came for is what propels him forward.  He takes a deep breath, wills himself to keep his eyes open, and leaps.

Even in August, the river water is frigid.  The shock from the cold and impact stun him for a matter of seconds, then his heart starts pumping triple speed and he jerks into action.  He toes his shoes off, then yanks his arms out of his hoodie. The water and adrenaline slow down his movements, and his lungs are burning by the time he kicks to the surface for a gulp of air.  Then he immediately ducks back down again.

His lungs burn as the month without swimming makes itself apparent.  He floats under the surface until he can’t possibly wait any longer, then kicks to the surface to take two deep, shuddering breaths, and lets himself sink down again.  The current is doing its job of pulling him downstream. The people on the bridge are at least a hundred meters away by now, if his brief, blurry look is anything to go by.  He’s mapped it all out, how long he’s got to follow the current before he makes a go for the shore and swims through the shallows. But actually being in the water– fighting the cold, and keeping himself afloat– is dizzying.  He’s got to keep calm, keep an eye out, and be prepared to abandon the plan should he begin to feel in danger of actually drowning himself.

He has to duck underwater for as long as he can manage whilst passing under a bridge, and twice swims for his life to avoid a boat.  

The landmark that’s a sign he can swim to the shallows comes just in time, after nearly an hour of swimming hard. He backstrokes to save his burning legs once he’s gotten himself out of the strong current in the middle of the river, then nearly weeps with relief when his feet touch the murky, muddy bottom.

He drags himself up the bank, thankful for the long grass that’s partially shielding him.  He coughs and hacks, rolling onto his back and splaying his arms out as he attempts to catch his breath and warm his body up in the sun.  He’s lying there, gathering his wits about him and willing his heart to stop jackrabbiting in his chest, when a shadow looms over him, and he freezes in shock and fear.

“You are an absolute nutter,” Stan says, nudging him in the ribs with his foot.

Louis exhales sharply in relief.  “Fuck, you scared me.”

Stan looks around comically.  “Oh, sorry, were you not expecting me?  Did I misunderstand your cryptic letter you asked me to burn after reading?”

Louis groans and rolls onto his stomach.  Stan drops a bundle of clothes on his head.

“Hurry up before we draw a crowd, will you?”

Louis sits up and pulls the shirt over his head, then quickly kicks off his pants and yanks up the drawstring shorts Stan’s brought. He’s also handed a pair of shower sandals a baseball cap, and, blessedly, a bottle of water.

“I love you,” Louis rasps, accepting the bottle and a hand up, then chugging half of it on the spot.  “I almost wasn’t expecting you.”

Stan glares at him.  “When have I ever not helped you out when you needed it?”

Louis shakes his head.  “Things went a bit sideways, is all.  Didn’t know you be able to keep up with the trial.”

Stan sticks his nose in the air as he leads the way through the grassy park they’ve rendezvoused at.  “I have been following the papers, thanks very much.” Then he snorts. “My wife thinks I’m proper informed now.”

Louis smiles sadly.  He hasn’t met Stan’s wife, hadn’t even been able to attend the wedding two years ago, as his sisters would be present.  In fact, by his count, it’s been nearly three years since he and Stan have even seen one another, and even that was a brief, covert lunch during one of Stan’s business trips in the city.  “How is she?”

Stan’s grin is wide.  “About to pop, actually.  It’s a boy.”

Louis stops in his tracks.  “No fucking way! Congratulations, mate!”  He pulls Stan into a tight hug. “But– shit, a kid?  You shouldn’t be helping me with any of this. If you get caught–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan cuts him off with a shrug.  “I’ll just say you threatened my family. The detectives’ll believe that, won’t they?  Especially after Harry.”

Louis can’t argue with that.  “Ehm,” he clears his throat. “How are the girls?”

Stan smiles sadly.  “Really good, Lou. Safe and happy.”

Louis nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.  “Good.”

“There’s me,” Stan says, gesturing to the silver hatchback, one of only two cars in the lot.  “Bet you’re ready to get that river sludge off you.”

“My mouth tastes like moldy seaweed.”

Stan drives them to a decrepit motel where there definitely are no surveillance cameras.  “I checked in earlier, everything you asked for is in there,” Stan tells him as they exit the car.

“What did you tell your wife?” Louis wonders.

Stan shrugs.  “We’re looking to make a change with our fertilizer supplier.  I’m going to meet with some wholesalers after this.”

The motel room smells like stale cigarette smoke and dust, but Louis’s duffle is waiting for him on one of the beds, next to a Tesco bag.

“You found the flat alright?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Stan says.  “Harry left me a few photos to give to the girls, just so you know.”

Harry’d mourned having to remove all signs of their life together from the walls of their first London flat.  It’s not a surprise he couldn’t bear to toss all of them.

“He also left this,” Stan says, striding forward to unzip the small pocket of Louis’s bag.  “Please tell me it’s not a creepy sex thing.”

It’s a plastic baggie with a crudely drawn kissy face done on the front in sharpie.  Inside is a long lock of hair.

Louis bursts out laughing.  Harry is so endearingly strange.  “It’s not a creepy sex thing.” It’s been a long time since Harry hasn’t had a mop of hair.  Louis wonders how different he looks.

Speaking of hair, he’s got to deal with his own.  He peeks into the Tesco bag and groans.

Stan grins.  “You’re gonna love it.”

Fucking Philip had changed Louis’s hair color to platinum blond in his forged passport photo, and now he’s got to deliver.  

“You’ll help me with this when I’m through in the shower, yeah?”

Stan groans.  “I didn’t sign up to be your hairdresser.”

Nearly twenty four hours later, Louis is stood at the train station, sporting blond locks and a very probable scalp burn, in his traveling clothes with his bag over his shoulder.  He’s got professional grade makeup on his wrists to cover his visible tattoos, and glasses on his face. He thinks he looks quite different, and hopefully his legal documents will eliminate any suspicion that an agent might have.  If he’s done everything right, they’ll be focused on finding his body in the river rather than patrolling the borders. It’s still a massive risk, though, and he can’t help but bounce on the balls of his feet with nerves.

“You sure you can’t tell me where you’re going?” Stan asks beside him.  He’d gone off on his sales meetings after they’d finished with his hair, then the two of them ate takeaway on their motel beds and talked until long after they should have gone to bed.  The grown-up version of the sleepovers they’d had when they were younger. Only this sleepover was tinged with sadness, because this is very likely the last time they’ll ever see one another.

Louis just shakes his head.  “Listen, I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”

Stan clears his throat, blinking furiously.  “It was nothing, mate, you’d do the same for me.”

“No,” Louis insists.  “I got myself into hot shit and couldn’t be there for you the way I should’ve.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Stan says forcefully.

Louis sighs.  “Yeah, it was.  I could’ve done something different with my life, and I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess.”   

“You were only trying to survive,” Stan says defensively.  “You had your family to look after.”

Louis laughs wetly.  “Did a shit job of that, too.”

“Louis,” Stan chastises, gripping his elbow.  “You kept them safe by leaving them behind. They know that.”

Louis nods, clearing his throat.  “You’ll keep an eye out, like you’ve done?”   

Stan scoffs, even as he sniffs away his tears.  “Like you even have to ask.”

Their moment is interrupted by the announcement that Louis’s train is boarding.  He and Stan take matching, shaky inhales, then embrace one another tightly.

“Go get your boy,” Stan says against his ear.  “Be well.”

“Name your son after me,” Louis says back.

Stan barks in laughter.  “Love you, Lou. Don’t get caught.”

Louis pulls him in for one final embrace.  “Love you too, Stanley.”

Louis boards the train, working hard to control his breathing, and the jackrabbiting of his heart.  He tells himself this is just like bluffing, a long con gamble with fairly good odds. If he keeps his head, and stays under the radar, he’ll be fine.

A few hours later, the train arrives at the station in Paris.  Logan Thompson, a Canadian post-graduate student on a backpacking sojourn through Europe, descends the steps.

Louis Tomlinson, as the world knows him, is dead.  

 //

RICHMOND, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

4 AUGUST, 2024

When Louis finally sets foot in the town Harry’s been residing in for months now, he could weep for joy.  It’s been a grueling several days of nervous travel, flying from Paris to Vancouver, with a layover in Amsterdam, then hailing an Uber to the address he’s had memorized for almost a year.

He could pinch himself, as he hasn’t had any trouble whatsoever with the authorities, not even when he handed over his Canadian passport and explained, in a terrible Canadian accent, how he’d just returned from a trip to Paris as a postgraduate school gift to himself.  The agent hadn’t even pretended to be interested as he took a cursory glance at his documents.

And now, after a forty minute Uber ride with a blessedly stoic driver, he’s stood in front of the townhouse he’d arranged a lease for sight unseen almost six months ago.  The townhouse that, from the looks of it, Harry’s been keeping up best he can. The grass is trimmed short and there’s a potted plant on the front steps. The siding is peeling a bit, and the windows look older than Louis, but all in all it’s not too bad.  And all that matters is that Harry’s inside, anyway.

He stands on the sidewalk in front of the house for several seconds, collecting himself, then takes a deep breath and walks up to the steps.

Through the gap in the curtains, he can see Harry, alive and well, lounging on the sofa in front of the television with the same dopey open-mouthed expression on his face he always has.  His hips and legs are occluded by a throw blanket, but Louis’d put money on it that he’s completely naked. In those ways, he’s just the same as Louis left him, but there are obvious differences too.  He looks older, more worn. His hair is buzzed short, and it’s dramatically changed the shape of his face. Haircut aside, he really is thinner than when Louis saw him last. It pains Louis to think that their separation was the cause.

Vibrating with excitement, Louis knocks on the door.

It takes a few minutes.  Harry’s probably searching for a pair of pants to put on to open the door.  He holds his breath as he hears the plot of Harry’s feet, and the click of the latch.  And then Harry’s standing in front of him, shirtless, and shocked, and real.

“Oh my God,” Harry chokes out, gaze sweeping from top to toe and back again.  “Oh my God. Lou.” He lurches forward, stumbling over the threshold and into Louis’s arms, a blubbering mess.  He holds tight to the back of Louis’s t-shirt and sobs into his shoulder.

Louis laughs wetly, carding his hands through Harry’s short hair.  “I missed you so much.”

Harry pulls back, grinning through his tears, and tugs disbelievingly on Louis’s blonde tresses.  “Oh my god, you look so hot.” They laugh into each other’s mouths as their lips connect. Once they’ve finally pulled away, Louis swipes at his cheeks, unsure whose tears are whose.

“Come in,” Harry says with enthusiasm, after a beat of just taking one another in.  He pulls Louis into the narrow foyer, closing the door behind them. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Me either,” Louis says.  He’s had dreams like this.  If he couldn’t feel the press of Harry’s hands on his waist, he’d pinch himself.

“Zayn told me you were supposed to be on your way, but I was too scared to get my hopes up,” Harry says.  He tugs Louis’s bag off his shoulder and drops it with a thud, then gathers him in his arms again. “I can’t believe you were in there for so long.  Was it alright?”

Louis buries his face in Harry’s chest and inhales.  They’re so far from home, but he still smells like himself.

“Now it is.”

Harry, sensing what he hasn’t said, pulls back to look him in the face, worry creasing his forehead.

“No, really,” Louis murmurs.  “I was safe, and that. Just bored out of my fucking mind is all.  All I could do was think about you.”

Harry’s concern morphs into regret.  “Meanwhile I was making friends with the neighbors and sorting out the flat.”

Louis soothes him with a kiss.  “We couldn’t have known I’d be held on remand.  Besides, it’s a very important job, this.” He gestures to the lounge to their left.  “How about a tour?”

Harry flushes.  “Well, it’s not much.”

Louis chuckles.  “Darling, I’ve looked at the same four walls for the last fifty days.  Whatever you show me’ll be fantastic.”

Harry leads them round the lower level, which doesn’t take long, considering the size.  There’s the lounge area that leads into the kitchen, and a small toilet. Harry’s right, the flat is mostly bare with a few pieces of mismatched furniture.  The floral chair in the corner of the lounge screams ‘Harry’.

“Got that at an estate sale my second week here,” Harry says proudly.  “Jess from next door took me. She got us the flowers on the step as a housewarming gift.”

Louis smirks.  “Hmm. Housewarming gift, eh?”

Harry laughs.  “She’s really looking forward to meeting you.  Might be too keen, actually.  She's one of them.” He waggles his brows, and Louis rolls his eyes.  _Straight girls._  “Once she sees you she’ll forget all about me, anyway.”

Louis scoffs.  “Please. You’ve always been the better skirt charmer.”

Harry chuckles, but his hand rises to touch his hairline as if on its own accord.

Louis frowns, because Harry typically hides his insecurities well.  “Is it the short locks?”

Harry huffs.  “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”

Louis looks closer.  Over the past few years, Harry’s hairline has crept up a bit on his forehead.  He’s always had his long hair to hide behind, as a bit of a security blanket. But frankly, Louis finds it to be even less noticeable now that it’s short.  He looks good. Very good.

“You look well fit, just like you always do,” Louis assures him.  “Better, even.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue.  Louis tugs at the elastic of Harry’s pants, and can’t resist a peek down.   _That_ looks good too.

“You look like you could still give me a proper seeing to.”

Harry shuffles forward, hands landing heavily on Louis’s waist, hair woes long forgotten.  “A seeing to, eh?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, as he’s boxed against the kitchen worktop.  “I seem to remember you owing me one.”

Harry groans, even as he slots their groins together.  “Don’t remind me.”

Louis lets his hands wander over Harry’s chest, tweaking a nipple on the way up.  “You know, there’s one room you haven’t shown me.”

Harry cups his hands around Louis’s cheeks and kisses him.  Louis opens his mouth for him and is rewarded by the swipe of Harry’s tongue against his own, sending butterflies to his dick.  Harry pulls back, then grabs Louis by the hand and leads him through the lounge and up the narrow staircase. There are three doorways off a short hallway.

“Wait here,” he says suddenly, darting into the room furthest from the stairs and closing the door behind him.

Bemused, Louis waits in the hallway, listening as Harry moves about in the room.  After a minute, Harry yanks the door open again. He stands naked and grinning in the doorway.  Seeing him in entirety now, Louis can definitely see that he’s lost weight, but it’s nothing a few weeks of good take away won’t fix.  Despite his thinner frame, his cock hangs thick and proud, just as it was before.

“Welcome home,” Harry says, voice low.  He moves aside so Louis can get a look at the room.  The bed is large, and takes up the majority of the small room.  The walls are painted a light gray, and the flicker of lit candles on the bedside table bounce shadows around the room.  

There are fairy lights strung around the metal bed frame, a nostalgic throwback to earlier times, that makes Louis’s throat tighten.

“Amazing,” Louis says, pulling Harry close.  “It’s so lovely, darling.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Harry says huskily.  “Been waiting ages to break it in with you.” He pulls Louis’s t-shirt off him with practiced ease, then pushes him lightly onto the bed.  Louis opens his arms, and Harry joins him, settling between his open legs. Louis hooks his legs behind Harry’s back and pulls him in for more kisses.  He remembered, of course, what Harry’s lips felt and tasted like whilst they were apart from one another, but having it in person again is an experience beyond words.  Luckily, they speak with their bodies, as Harry eventually tugs Louis’s trackies down and replaces them with his mouth and fingers. Louis lies back and lets him do as he pleases, enjoying every moment of being worshipped.  He’ll return the favor in a few hours.

Afterwards, once Louis’s waddled into the small adjoining washroom and cleaned himself up, they lie together in bed, face to face, hands clasped between them.

“Feel like I fucked a rock star,” Harry murmurs, moving both of their arms to tuck a long bleached strand away from Louis’s face.  “You should keep it for a bit.”

Louis hums.  “We’ll see.”

“Oh,” Harry says suddenly.  “I’ve got something else for you.”  He extracts himself from Louis to lean over and dig into the bedside table. When he returns, he’s got something small in his hand.  “For us.” It’s a set of simple gold wedding bands. “Figured we should look the part.”

It’d been a cheeky prank by Philip, making them married on their falsified documents.   _“If I can’t ever be Harry Tomlinson, I’ll take Henry Thompson,”_ Harry had said when he’d seen the passports for the first time.

Louis can’t help but get a bit misty eyed as he sits up to join him.  “Well, put it on me, then.”

Harry swallows thickly as he holds onto Louis’s left hand and pushes the ring onto his finger.  It’s a little big, but it’s nothing a bit of string won’t fix. Louis does the same for Harry, hand shaking only a touch as he slides the ring onto Harry’s finger.  They seal the moment with a long, lingering kiss.

“Shame we couldn’t have a ceremony,” Louis says regretfully.

“Well,” Harry says, “I thought we could make it official– well, unofficial, I suppose–  when the girls come to visit. If you wanted.”

Louis inhales.  “Did she say they would?”

Harry squeezes his knee. “Of course she did.  Lottie misses you so much, Lou. She told me to tell you they all love you.”

Louis closes his eyes, overcome.  He’s missed his sisters so much, but their safety has been his only priority for the past several years.  Aside from being able to live freely with Harry, having some sort of relationship with his sisters again, no matter how small, makes their reckless escape worth it.

“And she wasn’t spotted?”

Harry shakes his head.  “She looked so different.  The only way I could tell it was her was cuz she had your eyes.  You can tell she’s in the right profession.”

“Stan said they’re all doing well.  Did she say they were doing well?”

Harry smiles apologetically.  “We didn’t have that much time before the detectives were on me.  I’m sure they are though, Lou. By the way, Zayn will never forgive me cuz he still thinks I’ve been cheating on you.  He probably would’ve killed me if he didn’t think it’d break your heart.”

Louis groans amusedly.  “Sorry. Safer for him to think you’re a slag than to know the truth about my family.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.  “It’s made for some awkward conversations, though.”

“How _are_ you speaking to him, though?” Louis demands.  “He told me you got out when I was awaiting my trial, and you said something about him telling you I was on my way!”

Harry grins.  “It was his idea.  It’s brilliant. It’s this comic book chat room he goes to.  We’ve been speaking in code.” He frowns. “I did have to go out and by a few comics to be sure I was understanding everything though.”

Louis guffaws.  “I knew one day I’d convert you.”

Harry pretends to pout. “I never said I _liked_ them.  We should get on sometime soon though, let him know you made it.”

“Alright,” Louis agrees.  “Feels really shit, to just leave him after all he’s done for us.”

Harry tugs him back down onto the bed.  “I know, babe.”

Louis tucks his chin and curls into Harry’s chest.  “I miss him.”

Harry sighs, and kisses him on the crown of his head. “I know.”  

They lie there in silence for a bit, until Harry mumbles into Louis’s hair, “D’you think my mum felt anything at all, when she heard what happened to me?”

Louis sighs sadly.  “I don’t know, love.”

“If we decide to have kids,” Harry says fiercely, “we’re going to love and support them no matter what.”

Louis looks up in surprise.  They’ve never spoken of children, at least not since Louis’s been dealing.  But they may actually have a chance at a family together now, if they lie low without any hiccups for a few years.

“Yeah,” Louis says belatedly, grin spreading over his face.  “We’re gonna be ace.”

“Everything is gonna be fine now,” Harry says with certainty.  “I can feel it.”

“If you say so,” Louis agrees mildly, but for once, after years of sleeping with one eye open, he senses it too.  It won’t be easy. They’ll have to get entry level jobs, and be forever cautious of being caught with forged documents.  And Louis’ll have to kick the gambling habit he’s nursed for over half his life.

But they’re alive.  Safe. Together.

Everything else is icing on the cake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [fic post](https://ham-palpert.tumblr.com/post/178830196506/tied-down-by-hampalpert-the-most-interesting-case)!


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